


i had a dream (i got everything i wanted)

by oforamuse



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, canon up to 5x12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 94,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse/pseuds/oforamuse
Summary: mickey milkovich hasn’t seen ian gallagher in over 9 years, not since the day he broke his heart and they shipped him off to prison for a crime he didn’t technically commit.the last place he expects to bump into him is new york fucking city.mickey suddenly finds himself being thrown head first back into a world of people and places he's spent so many years trying to leave behind.or, the one where two broken puzzle pieces find a way to fit themselves back together.au from 5x12/6x01 onwards.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mandy Milkovich, Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mandy Milkovich & Mickey Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich & Sandy Milkovich
Comments: 346
Kudos: 589





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> howdy, i've been working on this for a while and i've never written anything as long so i'm pretty proud of it. please excuse any timeline issues, i tried my best but shameless is terrible themselves at continuity. I've written about a 1/4 of the entire thing right now, with a few chapters complete so hopefully i won't get stumped. 
> 
> the title is taken from the billie eilish song, it's a banger. 
> 
> warning for the overuse of the word 'fuck' - i am british after all.

They’re out of fucking milk. They’re out of eggs, butter and even bread. 

There’s not even a bag of chips in sight - what the fuck is this? 

_‘Fuck_.’ Mickey curses, he’s hungry and there’s nothing in his goddamn apartment to eat. He could’ve sworn Mandy went grocery shopping only a few days ago, how did they already manage to finish the lot off? He swears someone’s been sneaking into their fourth floor walk up to raid their fridge - it’s probably that bitch who’s always yelling at the ass crack of dawn on the floor below, Mickey’s constantly having to stomp on the floor at 5am to shut the bitch up. His stomach rumbles angrily, he got in late last night from work and couldn’t be bothered to throw something together before he passed out on the sofa. Mandy’s not even home right now so he can’t even be properly pissed at her for eating all their food as much as he would like to. He rubs his hands over his eyes, already exhausted by the day despite only waking up 10 minutes ago. He slept in late, later than usual, since work had been a bitch the night before. Too many drunken handsy people having to be thrown out of a club on a friday night - he definitely does not get paid enough to deal with that shit. 

He opens the fridge door again hoping for some sort of fucking biblical level miracle but groans, it’s still as empty as before. There’s not even a 20c pack of ramen floating about, only a bag of flour, a few beers and a lonely can of soup sitting on the top shelf. There’s no chance he’ll be eating that can of shit. He begrudgingly resigns, it’s 2pm on his day off and he just wants some damn eggs. 

To the overpriced bodega two blocks down he goes, he fucking hates that place. 

He huffs and stomps grumpily into his room to quickly throw on some proper clothes, hastily picking out a clean t-shirt and pairing it with yesterday’s somewhat clean jeans. He shrugs at his reflection in the mirror - he ain’t got no one to impress, especially not on a run down the road. He goes into Mandy’s room and grabs the twenty bucks he’d seen sitting on top of the dresser - telling himself that he’ll pay her back somehow, despite the fact she’s the greedy culprit who ate everything. He throws a jacket over his shoulders, grabs his keys off the hook by the door and bounds down the narrow staircase. Their apartment sits on the top floor of an overpriced but barely used laundromat on a busy cross street in the high east nineties. New York is loud, people are rude and it stinks 99% of the time, but it works for them. Besides, it’s not Chicago, that’s the important part. 

That’s the really important part. 

Mandy had moved in here originally with an ex boyfriend she’d chased all the way out here from Chicago, and they’d actually managed to stick it out for a few years before he inevitably ran off with another girl. By that point, Mandy had already gotten a receptionist job at a gym downtown and somehow managed to score a relatively low rent with the landlord, so she decided to stick it out instead of moving home. Mickey isn’t 100% sure there wasn’t a blowjob involved or something, but he ain’t questioning it. 

He got out of prison just over 3 years ago on good behaviour and pretty soon after found himself following Mandy out to the East Coast. He never thought he’d see himself leave Chicago’s city limits but as soon as he completed his 2 years of parole and he was free to leave the state, he hopped on a bus without looking back. 

There sure as hell wasn’t anything left for him there. 

His few years of parole had been lonely and even though he’d never admit it if anyone asks, the last thing you want after being locked up for years is to live alone. He mainly kept to himself, picked up some shifts at a local mechanic that his PO had managed to organise for him. Stayed out of trouble and mostly kept his head down - which wasn’t the easiest thing for a Milkovich to do but his heavy ankle monitor constantly reminded him that he was barely even out of the clink, he knew he couldn’t chance it to toe the line. It surprised him how relatively easy it was to stay out of trouble and it made him wonder how different his life could’ve been had he not been brought up by a sadistic criminal of a father and a nonexistent mother. If he’d had a normal childhood without the scrounging and the hiding and the beatings. 

He didn’t try and reconnect with anyone he knew from before. What was the point? Svetlana had skipped town for some rich guy, she’d mailed him the divorce papers and they’d finalised it all around the third year or so of his incarceration. He didn’t even get to say goodbye to the kid, not that Mickey particularly minded, but he had been growing somewhat fond of the fucker. His brothers’ still lived at home, but he’d heard from some fellow inmates that his dad was out so he steered clear of his childhood home and any of his dad’s old local haunts. He bounced around dingy motels for the majority of the year, which was a fucking hassle since he had to keep asking his PO to change the radius on his montior, but it out weighed having to go and ask anyone for any favours. He avoided his entire old neighbourhood, willing every single time he got on the L or walked down a busy street that he wouldn’t bump into someone he knew. 

Even if he wanted to reconnect with people he didn’t even know where he’d start, it had been 6 full years. It took him for fucking ever to track Mandy down, let alone…

No. 

_No._

He’s halfway to the store when he stops. He can’t fucking breathe. 

What the fuck.

He can’t move, he can’t _physically_ move.

His bones feel like they’ve interlocked in place, sticking together and solidifying him into an ancient statue and he can’t. fucking. move. 

Because it’s Ian _fucking_ Gallagher. 

Ian Gallagher standing right in front of him.

Ian fucking I don’t love you enough anymore Gallagher. 

He’s standing right in front of him on the sidewalk in New York city, right outside a goddamn Duane Reade, hundreds of miles from the Chicago South Side. 

What in the fucking fucking _fuck_? 

Mickey could be dreaming, Mickey _must_ be dreaming, because this can’t be fucking real. He’s often seen the ginger boy, _man_ \- he corrects himself, in his dreams over the last few years. He’s always appeared as a shadowy figure or even as a whimsical idea echoing in his subconsciousness but this is way too realistic. 

He’s here, he’s here standing right in front of him in the living and breathing human bodied flesh.

Yet he’s still the exact same tall, red headed guy that a teenage Mickey fell for over a decade ago and it’s like being bitch slapped by a bus, full force and full of impact. Ian hasn’t seen him yet, he’s talking into his phone, laughing at something that’s been said and Mickey’s heart hurts. It’s been over nine years since he saw Ian laugh like that. His hands start to shake and his breath picks up in short, small uncontrollable bursts. There must be somewhere he can go and duck into. He checks the distance to the entrance to the Duane Reade, wondering if he could chance it before the other man notices. 

He should turn around, groceries be damned, he should go right the fuck now before Ian see’s him and-

‘ _Mickey?_ ’ 

Oh, fuck. Even his voice is exactly the same. God, Mickey has waited 9 years to hear that voice again but right now all he can hear is rushing wind in his ears, his entire world turned on its axis. 

Is everyone around him moving in slow motion or is it just him? 

He looks up and Ian is staring at him with a wide eyed, _what the fuck is going on_ , expression on his face. Yeah, Mickey would like to know too, if only he could get his fucking breathing under control. 

‘Mickey?’ He repeats without moving closer, the phone call hangs abandoned in his right hand. He wonders who from his past is on the other end of the line, Lip? Fiona? Perhaps a new boyfriend? Husband, even? 

‘Hi.’ Mickey breathes out harshly, panic rising up slowly in his throat. He still can’t move. 

This is a dream, this is a fucked up dream. 

‘What, what are you- you’re out?’ Ian asks, finally breaking the barrier between them and moving a step closer. His face is practically the same as he looked the last time Mickey saw him, but it’s been clear the time that has passed. He’s lost even more of the baby face he once possessed, his jaw now sharp and precise. His eyes are bright and alive, worlds apart from the dead and sunken look Mickey recalls from their last interaction - the one where Ian had told him he’d wait and never fucking visited him again. 

‘Fuck you doing here, Gallagher?’ He hears himself blurt out shakily and he barely even realises he said it, only noticing Ian’s eyebrows furrowing together in a response. He looks so confused and concerned but also somewhat hurt and Mickey wants to. fucking. bolt. 

All he wanted was some god damn eggs but instead he gets sucker punched by history and the feeling he’s about to spew his guts out onto the sidewalk. 

‘I could ask you the same thing.’ Ian replies, dumbfounded. Someone shoulders grumpily past Mickey and he’s suddenly pulled back to the fact they’re standing, staring at each other in the middle of a busy sidewalk. 

‘Fuck you, watch yourself asshole!’ He calls after the guy in the classic New York fashion he’s managed to perfect in the last few months, he’s getting quite good at blending in. People continue to shove passive aggressively past them, though neither men move. ‘Been here almost a year.’ He says without bringing his gaze back to Ian, staring just over his shoulder at the busy traffic. 

‘What? You’ve been out for a year?’ Ian’s ask incredulously, bringing Mickey back to the shocked expression on his face. It’s almost as if he never even considered the possibility that Mickey might’ve made parole early instead of sitting his full sentence. Behind the confusion there’s a small smile playing on his lips, it reminds Mickey too much of _those days_ and it hurts. It hurts. It hurts. 

How is it still hurting after 9 years? 

‘Almost three.’ Mickey replies, his attempt at nonchalance hardened by the bitter taste flooding his mouth. He feels like he’s about to choke, he has to get out of here. ‘Listen, I gotta go-’ 

‘Mickey, I-’ Ian interrupts, stepping a foot closer to him. His arm is raised in front of him in a way that looks like he’s going to try and touch him or hug him or _something-_

Mickey spins on his heel and gets the _fuck_ out of dodge. 

Groceries forgotten, Mickey practically sprints back to his apartment, the streets a blur around him as he shoulders through. He takes the four sets of stairs two at a time, not letting himself register the sharp ragged tightness in his chest until he gets to his front door. 

His hands fumble as he pulls the keys out from his pocket, but somehow he manages to steady himself enough to let himself into his apartment. He slams the door behind him and slumps immediately down to the floor, his back against the wood as he tries, unsuccessfully, to steady his breathing. 

Fuck. 

_Fuck, fuck, fucking, fuck._

What on fucking God’s green earth is Ian doing _here_? 

Here. 

Here in this world that Mickey has so painstakingly created for himself, for him and Mandy. A world that is hundreds of miles away from Chicago, from the South Side, from them. From the porch steps where Ian stood blankly, rejecting Mickey’s heart and crushing it in his hands. Hundreds of miles away from the Kash and Grab where they’d fuck in the back room but laugh out front, from his broken childhood home that was made just that little brighter by Ian’s laughter, from the prison he sat in for 6 fucking years doing time for Ian _fucking_ Gallagher. 

Mickey’s hands are shaking, the tattoos on his knuckles blur as he shoves them underneath his thighs in an attempt to get something under control and closes his eyes. He breathes slowly, his stomach nauseous, his rabid hunger from an hour earlier long forgotten. He doesn’t think he could eat anything for another week. 

There’s a quiet, hesitant knock on his apartment door, a foot or so above Mickey’s resting head. 

‘Mickey?’ 

It’s Ian again, _Jesus_ , he must’ve followed him here. He curses the fact that the main door downstairs is broken so any random fucker can walk in. He’s told their landlord so many times to get it fixed, and God he should’ve done it himself because he really could’ve used a proper lock right about now. 

‘What do you want?’ Mickey grunts out, pulling himself off the floor to grab the pack of smokes sitting on the small table by the door. His hands shake as he pulls out a cigarette and it falls to the floor, _fuck_. 

‘Mickey.’ Ian’s voice persists, and Mickey rolls his eyes because the kid was never good at getting the message of _go the fuck away._ His stomach jolts at the thought of that persistent teenage ginger freckled freak that buried himself under Mickey’s skin and tattooed himself there when they were just kids. He remembers 16 year old Ian’s earnest way of looking at him like he held the world in his hands, following him around and slipping into Mickey’s life almost seamlessly. He remembers the feeling of agony he felt every single day, sitting in that cell and willing to turn back time and change things. Mickey registers something flowing through him, something fiery and hot, it’s anger. He feels it swarm from his fingertips all the way down to his toes, it pushes him forward. He swings around, unlocks the door and stares at the man standing in front of him. 

‘What the fuck do you want?’ He spits, years and years of pent up disappointment and heartbreak coursing fiercely through his veins and he feels like he’s about to explode. This isn’t how he used to imagine seeing Ian again would be, he always imagined warmth and floating and butterflies in his fucking stomach. He imagined kisses and tears and I love yous. 

He stopped imaging seeing Ian again around the 4 year mark. 6 years of sitting in a prison, waiting, changes people. 

And yet, everything feels the same. His heart still fucking pounds in the same way and his knees feel like they’re about to give out at the sight of those eyes and that _ginger_ hair. 

‘It’s you.’ Ian breathes, the surprised expression slipping away from his adult and aged features revealing the same kid he’s always been, ‘It’s you, here.’ 

‘Yeah no fuckin’ shit Sherlock Holmes.’ he snaps, patting his pockets to find a lighter in an attempt to give his hands something to do other than shake. Fuck, he must’ve left it inside. 

‘I didn’t know you were out-’ Ian starts awkwardly, almost as if he doesn’t know what to do now that he actually has Mickey in front of him, like the bastard didn’t follow him up here and practically demand his audience. 

‘Are we _really_ going to do the fucking sentimentalities?’ It comes out way more breathy and defeated than Mickey would’ve liked but he’s tired, overwhelmed and really just wants a smoke. They stare at each other, it’s awkward and clunky and full of history. ‘Like, how's the fucking weather been? Really?’ 

‘No, I just- you look good.’ Ian offers quietly, his eyes flickering down, following Mickey’s entire body to the floor. It should feel good, getting checked out, but it doesn’t. 

‘Not a lot to do in _prison_ other than work out.’ Mickey says firmly, puffing his chest out slightly. He doesn’t miss the way Ian’s shoulders slump as a response at the mention of his incarceration. 

Good. 

Truthfully, other than his heart hurting every minute of everyday, the majority of prison feels like a blur to him now. It was hours of working out, fucking and volunteering in the canteen, the library, the yard. Anything to keep his mind off of things. He’s managed to keep up with the working out though, regularly running around the top end of central park and he sometimes gets one on one boxing lessons from a guy down the road. It feels good, he feels strong. Ian was always the strong one between the two of them - not any more. 

‘How ya been?’ Ian asks casually as if it’s only been weeks and not years, the ease at which he says it slaps Mickey, it stings. 

‘Oh real fuckin’ fine and dandy.’ Mickey replies harshly and Ian’s eyebrows drop, his forehead creased by the words that hang unspoken. Mickey can feel a heavy scowl form on his face, it hurts with the intensity he’s holding it. 

‘We could, uh, go for a beer? and talk, maybe?’ Ian presses earnestly, somewhat testing the waters. Mickey can’t help but bark out a laugh. Nine years of fucking silence and the guy wants to go for a beer. His stomach churns and he feels like he’s going to vomit. He stares at him, his silent answer glaringly obvious. Ian’s eyes fall, they’re heavy and sad and they’re burning right into Mickey’s skin. He shakes his head, exhausted by it all and goes to close the door, but Ian steps forward sharply and grabs the handle. 

‘Don’t- Mick, please.’ 

The nickname stabs Mickey in the gut. He can’t do this. 

‘Really, Ian?’ Mickey asks in disbelief, ‘Nine fucking years of _nothing_ and you want to go for a beer-’ 

‘I know that-’ Ian tries but Mickey keeps barrelling through. 

‘Act like I never went to prison for your ass?’ Mickey fires back sharply, unable to hold it all back, ‘And you never fucking visited me? Not once after that first time- six years I sat there like a bitch and nothing.’ 

Mickey’s breathing is ragged, his chest heaving. He's angry, he's so fucking angry. 

Ian’s face crumbles. He resigns and releases his hand from where he’d been holding the door open and steps back cautiously, shame hangs in the air between them. 

‘I just want to talk to you.’ Ian says softly, his eyes serious but desperate. There’s a glimmer of wetness in them that makes Mickey want to both scream and take him into his arms. They’re the same green eyes Mickey filled into the ' _IAN GALLAGHER'_ filing cabinet and locked away in the back of his mind - he doesn’t think he’s even slept with someone with green eyes since Ian. He’s fucked a lot of gingers over the years, a lot more than he would ever probably admit, but those eyes? They’re something you can’t just replicate. 

_Fuck those sad eyes,_ he thinks, _you don’t get to be sad_. 

You don’t get to be sad when you are the one that did this. 

‘We had six years to talk.’ Mickey bites back venomously, he’s not sure where this surge of confidence came from but he’s grabbing it by the reins and riding it out. 

‘I know, I-’ Ian steps forward, his hands raised up as a peace offering. Mickey wants to push them far away but also grab them by the wrist and never let him go. His head hurts, he’s confused. He wants to throw up. 

_‘Ian?’_ A voice calls out from down the hall, slicing through the red hot tension between the two men. Mickey breathes out heavily and glances down the hall at his younger sister. 

_Fantastic_ , just what he needs. He braces himself. 

‘Ian!’ Mandy all but squeals, throwing her arms around him happily, her skinny arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. He lifts her off the ground easily for a moment before dropping her back on her feet. God, they're like a bunch of school kids. Mickey shifts his weight from foot to foot awkwardly, not knowing where to put himself between the two old friends, and ultimately, he just wants to leave. 

‘It’s so good to see you, Mandy.’ Ian says quietly, the corners of his mouth turned up into a small smile, his eyes then shift plainly over to Mickey. He looks away sharply. 

Mandy steps back, throwing a slow glance between the two of them, Mickey standing in the doorway, eyes down, and Ian a few feet back. The atmosphere shifts as her slow realisation sets in. 

It’s an echo of a moment all those years ago, Mandy standing in the doorway just before Mickey’s disastrous marriage to Svetlana after Ian had begged him not to go through with it. 

‘Am I interrupting something?’ She asks awkwardly, and Mickey wishes his sister could just read the fucking room for once. 

‘Uhhh…’ Ian begins, clearly unsure where to start but Mickey rolls his eyes because _fuck this._

‘No, you’re not.’ He grunts, turning around quickly and slamming the door on the two of them - despite knowing fully well that Mandy has her own key and Ian could walk right in there anyway. 

He stomps into the kitchen and paces, the filing cabinet deep in the back of his brain marked ‘ _IAN GALLAGHER_ ’ breaks open like Pandora's box and decade old memories he’s tried so hard the last few years to lock up come flooding out. They fall out onto the kitchen floor and Mickey feels like he’s drowning. 

_I love you. What the hell does that even mean?_

Shut up.

_Don’t. Don’t what? Just…_

Shut up. 

_You love me and you’re gay._

Shut up. 

_Ian what you and I have, makes me free._

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up. He slams his fist into the wall, pain coursing through his knuckles and up his arm. It does nothing to relieve his anxiety, only leaving him with an inch dent in the wall he’s going to have to fork out for at some point. He can’t bring himself to care. 

He pulls the fridge door open and reaches to the back for a knocked over beer. He opens it deftly and chugs it in one. It’s bitter as it goes down and does nothing to suppress the swarming unwanted thoughts. 

_Chugging beer in the dugouts, covered in blood, breathless. Kissing. Fucking. The taste of beer and blood and sweat lingering on each other’s lips._

‘Fuck.’ He mutters, he can’t even have a fucking drink in peace without his brain reminding him and reminding him and reminding him. 

Reminding him that if Ian walked in right now, heart and arms open, Mickey would probably fall into them willingly, years worth of heartbreak be damned. 

Fuck, he thought he was done with this. He’s worked so fucking hard at being _done_ with this, but apparently, Ian Gallagher is allowed to just walk back into his life - without notice - and set fire to years of his progress. 

He reaches for the fridge door and has his hand wrapped around his next beer when Mandy comes storming in, knocking it from his grip. It clatters to the floor, spinning slowly to a stop below the sink. 

‘You’re a fuckin’ rude asshole, you know that?’ She spits, her face twisted and ugly. 

‘Fuck off.’ He fires back, once again going to open the fridge without bothering to pick up the fallen can off the linoleum. He just wants to get fucking drunk and _forget_ , but of course, Mickey’s not one to usually get what he wants. Mandy’s hand slams the fridge shut before Mickey can even inch it open. 

‘You haven’t seen the guy in years, you could at least be fuckin’ nice.’ 

‘Can’t a guy have a fuckin’ beer in his own home?’ Mickey snorts, feigning nonchalance but fooling neither of them. He steps out of her glare and bends down to collect the fallen can. It’s gonna be a bitch to open, but clearly access is denied to the fridge right now. He needs another drink. 

‘No wonder he fucking dropped your ass as soon as you got locked up.’ 

He stops. Mickey feels like he’s been slapped. 

One hand grips the can and the other balls instinctively into a fist. He stares down at the floor, he can’t move, panic and anger and sadness all flare up in his chest, like broken fireworks spitting out against a dark sky. He was brought up to never use violence against women, but fuck, this is the first time in his life he feels like punching, slapping, or doing something to his sister. Making her feel even an ounce of the agony he’s dealt with for the best part of a decade. He won’t, but his hands are shaking, his breath is rising up his throat and he wants to scream. 

He doesn’t. He stays there, halfway bent down to the floor, staring at his shaking white knuckles wrapped around the Bud light in his left hand. 

‘Fuck you.’ He grunts without looking up. Mandy scoffs and turns away, padding slowly into her room. Her door slams shut and Mickey’s knees buckle to the floor. 

He lies on the dirty kitchen floor and breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [follow me on twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian) and [on tumblr](https://https://oforamuse.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i fully just accidentally updated this as a new chapter to one of my other oneshots so that was a ride. whoops! thanks for all the love on the first chapter. hope this satisfies.  
> warning for my overuse of italics.

Living with Mandy definitely isn’t like the fucking Brady Bunch, or whatever you’d expect between two siblings. They get by mainly because they stay out of each other’s crap and each other’s way. Mickey will go out if Mandy brings home some guy she wants to fuck (and vice versa), Mandy will leave Mickey dinner if she’s cooked enough and he’s getting in late from work, and they both surprisingly take turns in the cleaning jobs - it’s simple and it works. They operate more like convenient roommates than two people from the same childhood home and bloodline. They’ve never been particularly close and they don’t really pretend to be. Sure, they have their moments where they laugh and crack open a beer a few nights a week but they don’t come crying to each other about their problems. Mickey can count the number of times Mandy visited him over 6 years on one hand, which he pretends doesn’t hurt, but it does. 

He knows he could've been a more supportive brother when he was younger too. They both kind of failed each other in that respect. 

By the time Mickey pulls himself off the floor, the kitchen is dark, and he must’ve been lying on the floor hours. He thinks he fell asleep at some point but he can’t be sure, everything is confusing and everything aches. 

He stumbles into his room and switches on the light, his eyes taking a moment to adjust. He finds his phone on the side, still plugged in where he’d left it this morning on what he thought was a quick grocery store trip. His stomach swirls at the memory, which is quickly followed by an angry growl and Mickey remembers he hasn’t eaten anything all day. He checks his phone to see the time and there’s a text on the screen from an unknown number a few hours ago.

**4:41pm: from UNKNOWN SENDER**

**‘Mandy gave me your number, I just want to talk.’**

‘Fuckin’ traitor.’ Mickey mutters, weighing up whether or not to respond or to throw his phone into the East River. He can claim that on insurance, right?

His stomach growls again and his fingers itch to type out a reply. 

Ian’s always been a persistent fucker. Unfortunately for Mickey, he's always ended up giving in to the younger boy. Whether it was putting up with him even when Mickey tried his hardest in the beginning to act like he didn’t want him around or suggesting community college or pushing and pushing and pushing until Mickey grew a pair and came out, Ian always seemed to be nagging about something. Up until those last few months where his mania was getting out of hand, he’d always been the one with the steady plan and expectations, or so Mickey thought. Reluctantly, he knows Ian won’t give up until Mickey gives him a straight answer or hears him out properly, his persistence used to be endearing but now it’s just fucking inconvenient. He sighs, the phone as heavy in his hand as the feelings in his chest and suddenly he feels 19 years old again.

* * *

They agree to meet an hour or so later at a bar Mickey frequents a few blocks down, a smaller slightly less sticky version of The Alibi run single handedly by this woman born and raised from Brooklyn. Mickey spent an embarrassingly long time choosing an outfit to wear (which he'd argue was because of having not done his laundry), swapping his shirts multiple times before he just gave up and chose something random. Heck, he even put some cologne on, though he’d never actually admit it. 

When he leaves his apartment his tension is palpable and he's somewhat worried he might even break a sweat. Mandy didn't show her face for the rest of the evening, her door remaining firmly closed, so luckily he didn't have to avoid any suspicious questions.

As soon as Mickey turns the corner and the bar comes into sight, his hands uncharacteristically clam up, instantly regrets giving into the Gallagher’s request. He stops underneath the Heineken sign in the window, basking in the green neon glow as he fishes out a cigarette. He’s already a few minutes late and he figures Ian can live with waiting an extra few minutes whilst he has a smoke to calm his nerves. Mickey had to wait 9 fucking years, the guy can deal with Mickey taking a minute. The smoke fills his lungs, warm and familiar, it’s the only thing normal about this weird fucking day. When Mickey Milkovich woke up this morning he did not expect to come face to face with the guy he’s spent so fucking long trying to move on from, it was absolutely at the bottom of the list of possibilities for the day. He smokes right up to the end of the filter, squeezing out every last moment of peace he can before he flicks it to the ground and stomps on it. 

It’s now or never, Milkovich. 

He takes a deep breath and pushes the wooden door open, stepping into the busy dimly lit bar. 

‘Mickey!’ Rosa calls from behind the bar when she sees him, her smile huge and her hand is already pulling down a pint of Mickey’s usual beer. 

_Great, announce my fucking presence to the whole room._

He winces, maybe he does come here a little too regularly. 

Mickey throws her a forced smile and scans the room for Ian, spotting him sitting in a back corner booth looking at his phone. As if he'd called his name, Ian's eyes flicker up just as Mickey catches him and they meet, Ian holding his hand up awkwardly in greeting. He takes a deep breath and goes over to the bar to get his drink, Rosa throws him a questioning look. 

She gestures her head towards Ian’s table. ‘First date?’ She asks innocently, handing him his pint, ‘You meet him online? He’s hot.’ She wriggles her eyebrows suggestively and Mickey wants this all to be over. 

‘Stick it on my tab.’ Mickey says steadily, swallowing down a biting response. He ignores her prying questions and chooses to flip her off as a thank you instead. He walks over to Ian’s table, his eyes pinned to a point on the wall above his head so he conveniently doesn’t actually have to look at the guy on his journey over. 

His heart thumps. _Thump, thump, thump_. 

He gulps. 

There's a moment of _blink and you'll miss it_ hesitation before he slumps down into the booth opposite, then Ian looks up from where he’s been fiddling with the label on his beer. His eyes get drawn to Ian’s slender fingers picking at the paper and he notes that the beer has an incredibly low alcohol percentage, barely even being able to call itself beer. 

‘The fuck you drinking that piss for?’ He asks, unable to let the opportunity to poke at the other man pass him by. It's a good icebreaker apparently, because Ian smiles shyly. Mickey's never been one for small talk, especially not when he’s nervous. 

‘My meds.’ Ian says simply, his forehead creasing ever so slightly, ‘It took a while getting used to it, but it basically tastes the same.’

He remembers the conversation they had with the doctor, Ian sitting opposite him with dead eyes and not saying a word. Falling further and further away from him with every single description of meds he had to take, or things he couldn’t drink or do because of his diagnosis. 

‘Fuckin’ doubt that.’ Mickey grunts casually, taking a swig of his _very_ alcoholic beer. He stares at Ian from over the glass. The other man shifts and reaches a tentative hand out on the table between them. There's a beat. 

‘I-, uh, I’ve missed you.’ Ian offers hesitantly, his voice low and uncertain. 

‘No you haven’t.’ Mickey says bluntly, his right hand gripping his glass tightly. Ian sighs, sitting up properly from where he’d been slouched over. 

‘I have, Mick.’ Ian replies, and there it is again, that _fucking_ nickname. 

‘Miss me enough to come visit me, yeah? Or how about even a fuckin’ call?’ Mickey says bitterly, running a hand through his hair. ‘Miss me fuckin’ enough to leave me high and dry for 6 years?’ 

Ian scrubs his hands over his face, ‘I’m sorry’ he offers. ‘I shouldn’t have done that to you. I shouldn’t have left you there.’ 

‘Why did you?’ Mickey asks, and it falls out awkwardly. He's got to know. He's got to know why he wasn't enough. 

‘I was a kid and I was fucked up.’ Ian says, pulling his arm back into his lap. Mickey is momentarily shocked at the honesty - he thought Ian would’ve put up more of a fight like he did when he was younger. ‘I was a kid in over his head and I thought I knew best…I thought you were better off without having to deal with me.’ 

‘Bullshit.’ Mickey spits, anger and hurt beginning to simmer in his belly. _Nothing_ about what he had to go through left him better off. 

‘I know that now.’ Ian says, meeting Mickey’s eyes. There isn’t a hint of blame in Ian’s eyes, but his face is held tight with regret. ‘It was bullshit.’ 

His words rolls over him like a cascading landslide. 

_God_ , Mickey can’t even count the amount of time he spent wishing those first few years of being locked up that he’d hear Ian say those words. Mickey rubs at his eyes, breaking their eye contact. He sits there for a second, letting his vision go black and spotty. It kinda looks how he feels. He wishes he could fall right into that dark pit and blink out of existence.

Ian pulls him back. 

‘I wanted to come see you.’ Ian confesses and Mickey drops his hands. ‘I really did.’ 

‘Why didn’t you?’ He asks and Ian looks away, ashamed. 

‘I figured you didn’t want to see me.’ He says, quietly, his fingers going back down the ripped up label. ‘It was hard picturing you there…’

‘Bullshit.’ Mickey repeats, this time with more obvious anger. Ian looks up at him, pained. 

‘No, Mick, I-’ He stops and swallows. ‘By the time I had managed to sort my shit out, it had been a while. I figured you must’ve hated me.’ 

‘I didn’t.’ Mickey says firmly, his eyes threatening to well up with unwanted tears. He scrubs them furiously away. 

The silence hangs between them, only broken by a bar full of bustling noise.

 _At least everyone else was having a normal night_ , Mickey thinks, _at least everyone else doesn't have to deal with their entire everything being turned upside down and thrown out for the entire world to see-_

‘You should’ve.’ Ian says, finally, breaking Mickey's internal dialogue. 

‘Yeah.’ Mickey says, not meeting Ian’s gaze. ‘I probably should’ve.’

He’s exhausted, this is exhausting. He wants to tell Ian that he hated him, that he still hates him. Mickey knows it would be a lie. He wants to tell Ian to fuck off, to get the fuck out of New York and leave him alone. 

He can’t. He won’t. 

Because try as he might, and he’s tried so fucking hard, everything always comes back to Ian. 

‘I’ve never hated you.’ Mickey says subconsciously, finally bringing his eyes up to meet Ian's desperate gaze, ‘Could never hate you.’

And it's true. He never could, never in a million years. 

They look at each other. Their years and years of history spread on the table between them. Souls bared and vulnerable. 

‘Why didn’t you come find me?’ Ian asks, so quiet Mickey almost misses it. Ian’s gaze shifts awkwardly as he explains as Mickey can feel himself scowl. ‘When you got out?’ Why didn’t you come find me?’ 

Ian looks at him so earnestly and Mickey almost bowls right over. He can’t fucking believe what he’s hearing. 

‘Are _you_ \- are you _fucking_ kidding me?’ He bites, jaw clenched so tightly he thinks he might break a tooth. ‘Are you seriously asking me right now, why I didn’t come find you after waiting six motherfuckin’ years for you to come find me?’

Ian shrinks back, ashamed and wounded. He doesn't even try to fight it. ‘I guess I deserve that.’ He says after a while and Mickey raises his eyebrows, surprised once again at Ian’s lack of self defence. ‘I know I fucked things up.’ 

‘Yeah.’ Mickey breathes, ‘You did.’ 

He puts his beer to his lips and drinks. It stings. 

‘I’m on meds, have been for the last few years.’ Ian confesses. ‘It took awhile to sort out, I, uh, had a rough time at first, but I’m good now.’ 

Mickey’s heart twinges. He remembers Ian’s mania, him bringing in all kinds of shit into their home, running miles every morning and fucking Mickey long into the night. Fucking other guys between that too. He aches at the thought of Ian barely wanting to get out of bed, going days without food or showering. Not saying a word to anyone for hours. 

Mickey runs a hand through his hair, unsure of what to say. He wants to take Ian by the shoulders and apologise for how he acted back then, he wants to slip his arms around his neck and breath him in, pull him close. He settles for a small smile. 

‘Good.’ He offers, ‘Better than havin’ your crazy ass running around.’ and Ian laughs weakly.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth that’s not from his beer. It’s the realisation that Ian got himself better without Mickey’s help, that perhaps Ian was right after all and that one of them _was_ better off without the other. 

Fuck, he needs a smoke. His hand comes down to feel the packet in his pocket and he lets it ground him. He'll get through this, he'll get through this and go to the bodega and get his pack of smokes. He just needs to make it through this conversation without completely breaking down. 

There’s a pregnant pause, neither man sure of where to step next. He takes a sharp breath and jumps. 

‘What the hell are you doing here anyway? Didn’t think they let Gallaghers leave the fuckin’ state.’ Mickey says plainly, shifting the subject. It's been nagging on his mind since their first encounter - what the fuck is Ian doing in New York City of all places? 

‘Didn’t think they let Milkovichs either.’ Ian quips back, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. 

Mickey rolls his eyes, ‘Fair enough.’ 

‘Fiona’s, uh, Fiona’s actually getting married here.’ Ian explains, ‘She met some rich guy from upstate a year ago and they’re tying the knot.’ Mickey snorts, remembering the string of guys Fiona would always have trailing after her like lost fucking dogs, it’s surprising that one has finally managed to pin her down. 

‘She pregnant?’ He asks, both as a genuine question and a jab. Given the Gallagher parent’s rep for popping out a kid every other year or so, he wouldn’t be surprised. 

‘Nah.’ Ian replies, ‘In love apparently.’ He chuckles wistfully before his eyes catch Mickey’s for a moment and they shift pointedly away. 

‘Good for her.’ He says uncomfortably, and he somewhat means it. There’s a pause and Mickey wonders if it’s time to call it a night because he can not deal with this right now because God. fuckin’. damn. he needs a smoke. Apparently his mouth hasn't caught up with his nicotine addiction, ‘How’d she meet the dude?’ He finds himself asking. 

‘He’s some business man or something, he was in town on some job and I dunno, they hit it off.’ Ian shrugs, ‘Lip’s got a kid now, though.’ Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise. He knows that Lip used to be an important part of the Gallagher household but _fuck_ , Mickey would never give that man a kid of his own. 

‘Who the fuck gave him a kid?’

‘A broken condom.’ Ian says bluntly, ‘Debbie’s got one too.’ 

‘A broken condom?’ Mickey quips back, somewhere between confused and somewhat disgusted at the idea of Debbie actually having sex considering the last time he saw her she was practically an infant.

Okay, like _14_ , but whatever. 

‘A kid.’ Ian rolls his eyes almost fondly and it throws Mickey back ten years, as if they were back underneath the bleachers at the dugouts. It’s easy to forget that literal years have passed between them. 

‘ _Jesus Christ_ , you Gallaghers have been fuckin’ reproducing like rabbits. There’s enough of you in the world as it is.’ He swallows uncomfortably before continuing, ‘You got a kid hiding somewhere?’ 

_‘Fuck_ no.’ Ian laughs and something uneven in Mickey’s gut he didn’t even know was there settles pleasantly. 

He glances quickly down to Ian’s left hand, no ring. 

Interesting. 

No kid, check. No ring, check. Boyfriend?

‘So the entire clan is back in town then?’ Mickey asks in an attempt to distract his thoughts away from Ian and other people. 

‘Yeah, we’re all here.’ Ian replies. 

‘Fuck, I’m not gonna be able to leave my apartment without bumping into one of you goddamn Gallaghers.’ Mickey jokes, taking a swig of his beer. There’s a beat and Mickey takes a moment to simply enjoy being back in Ian's company. He's missed him so fucking much he feels like he could drown in it, it rolls over him like waves. Over the years he's barely let himself admit it - he's always gotta be the cool and unbothered one, never the one to harp on the past. He doesn't think he's even mentioned Ian to anyone except Mandy since moving to New York, his name always painful and heavy whenever he does rarely come up. Neither one of them mention the Gallaghers or Chicago really, for that matter. They both silently agreed to leave it behind them. 

‘Come to the wedding.’ Ian blurts out. It slams Mickey right back into reality harshly and he almost falls out of his seat, his beer spilling everywhere. Ian looks at him uncomfortably, painstakingly waiting for a response. Neither man moves to grab a napkin. 

Is he about to vomit? Are they both about to vomit?

‘What?’ He mutters, Mickey must’ve heard him wrong cause there’s no fuckin’ chance he just asked him _to_ -

‘Come with me to the wedding.’ Ian breathes, offering a hand out on the table. ‘I can have a plus one, I mean it’s Fiona.’ He shrugs self consciously. 

Mickey can’t actually believe the words coming out of Ian’s mouth right now. He just told Mickey that he’s on his meds right now, his mania should be under control, did he fucking lie? 

He must be on crack, he’s drunk, he’s high out of his fucking mind. That’s the only explanation. 

‘Are you-’ Mickey starts, but Ian stops him with a protesting hand. Mickey swallows hard, what the fuck is going on?, ‘Are you out of your mind?’ 

‘Hear me out, I know it sounds fuckin’ insane.’ He levels, his eyes pleading and is face so fucking earnest and open. 

‘Yeah, it fucking does.’ Mickey says incredulously, really hoping that Ian his catching his clear message of _what the FUCK._

‘It’s been years, Mick.’ Ian presses, ‘I’m sure everyone would be surprised- _love_ to see you.’ He corrects himself. 

Mickey literally has to hold himself back from laughing in Ian’s face, he barely succeeds and he knows his face must be a picture of absolute surprise. He takes a moment and regroups himself, all the humour gone. He knows why they'd be surprised to see him. 

‘Years because I was in fuckin’ prison and none of those bastards came to see me.’ He bites, and Ian looks like he’s been slapped. 

‘Mickey…’ 

‘Your family fuckin’ hated me.’ He states plainly, and it’s true, he knows they weren’t his number one fans. In their defence, Mickey found them fucking annoying too. ‘I ain’t wasting my time in a place where I ain’t wanted.’ 

‘That’s a lie!’ Ian protests, ‘Carl has always liked you, Debbie too, I know Lip can be a dick- and Liam you have to see Liam-’ 

‘You’re crazy.’ Mickey mutters in disbelief, but Ian holds up a hand in protest. The idea of being thrown back into that... It makes him feel sick. 

‘I want you there.’ Ian admits, and it hangs there heavily as he tries to gage Mickey’s reaction. Mickey’s heart pounds inside his chest and he feels like he might vomit on the table between them. ‘I just want to spend some time with you Mick, it’s been…’ 

‘I want you there.’ Ian repeats, holding his uncomfortable gaze and Mickey _really_ thinks he’s going to vomit this time. 

‘You don’t owe me anything, Gallagher.’ He bites back stiffly, attempting to swallow down the lump that’s building slowly in his throat. His hands start to slightly shake and he wraps them around his empty glass to steady them. Ian’s eyes catch onto the quick movement. ‘And I sure as hell don’t owe nothin’ to you.’ 

This is too much, this is all too much. 

‘I want you there.’ Ian says for a third time, his fingers coming to rest hesitantly on top of Mickey’s hands and Mickey surprises himself by not instantly pulling away. The touch blazes like fire, sending sparks through his hand and up his arm. 

‘Heard you the fuckin’ first time.’ Mickey mutters, ‘Like a goddamn broken record.’

His gaze shifts down and fixes on their point of contact. Ian’s slim fingers lightly tracing the dark angry ink on his knuckles. He can feel his resolve chipping away, years and years of shutting everything out comes falling to the floor, like his heart is a fucking piñata. He always found it difficult to say no to Ian, even when he was a closeted asshole kid it didn’t come as easy as it must’ve seemed. Even in the most terrifying moment of his life, when Ian asked him to put everything on the line and jump quite literally headfirst out of the closet, he couldn’t say no. 

‘Mickey.’

‘I, I just don’t know, okay?’ He pulls his hand away and pinches the bridge of his nose. He really should fucking run, go back to his apartment and book a flight to somewhere fucking far away. His breath hitches. ‘It’s been nine fuckin’ years, I can’t just…’ 

‘I know.’ Ian breathes, ‘and that’s why I want you there.’ Mickey looks up at him and his eyes are sad, his eyes are so _so_ beautifully sad. ‘Please give me the chance to make it up to you.’ 

The brick fortress around his heart crumbles around him and comes tumbling to the floor. 

‘When is it?’ He sighs, exasperated, and Ian’s eyes light up in disbelief, like he’s just handed the guy a million bucks. 

‘Tuesday.’ Ian answers, grinning that same _fucking_ smile. His fist bumps the air playfully, and Mickey’s heart clenches because he looks so young. 

‘ _Tuesday_? Tuesday like two days from now?’ Mickey says, scowling and he cannot actually believe he is buying into this shit. ‘You are giving me two days to prepare to see your fuckin’ family? I’m gonna need at least another five years.’ And he’s being 100% serious. 

Ian laughs and something warm in Mickey stirs. He doesn’t know what to do with it. 

‘It’s gonna be fine.’ Ian says, ‘once they get over the shock of seeing you again.’ He takes a swig of his piss beer and grins at Mickey from over the bottle. 

‘Fuck off.’ Mickey says, but there’s zero bite behind it. It's casual and warm, like the old days. He flips him off, ‘I’m gonna get so fucking drunk.’ 

‘What else is there to do at a wedding?’ Ian says breathlessly, ‘You’re gonna get to meet all the kids!’ 

‘ _Whoop di fuckin’ do._ ’ Mickey sing-songs unenthusiastically, raising his eyebrows at the other man. ‘You’re supposed to be sellin’ this shit to me Gallagher, not makin’ me want to run for the hills.’ 

Ian laughs, throwing his head back which exposes his pale neck and Mickey gulps. The amount of kisses he has pressed into that very skin, he knows the exact point that drives Ian crazy. They used to spend hours just going at it, Mickey going to town on his neck, licking and biting. His hand comes down to shift himself uncomfortably in his pants as his crotch responds like an inexperienced teenage boy. He can’t fucking believe this is happening. 

‘Fiona won’t mind?’ He asks, trying unsuccessfully to shift his focus away from the blood stirring in his groin. Thinking about Fiona Gallagher should definitely make him go soft. It works. 

‘Nah’ Ian dismisses easily, ‘I’ll tell her beforehand, so there are no surprises.’ 

‘Good.’ Mickey finds himself saying, the last thing he wants to be is an unwanted surprise - much like the ones the Gallaghers have apparently been racking up. They find themselves, for the first time since they bumped into each other earlier, in a comfortable silence which neither one of them know what to do with. 

‘I’ve missed you.’ Ian admits again, just as Mickey is about to open his mouth to say how he should go get more beer. He tenses, pressing his back into the booth. ‘I- I know I don’t get to say that.’

‘You don’t.’ Mickey mutters, his fingers reaching down to trace the seam of the booth’s fabric. Ian winces, but nods sadly. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Ian whispers, ‘I-’ 

‘Ian.’ Mickey says firmly, and he takes a deep breath, he feels like he’s on the edge of a cliffside about to jump, ‘I’ve missed you too.’ 

They hold each other’s gaze. Now that’s out in the open. It’s heavy, daunting and too much to handle. His breath hitches and he feels like he could scream. Or cry. Or both. 

‘I should go.’ Mickey says, cutting off their eye contact by moving to shift out from their table. Ian’s shoulders drop down. 

‘Yeah.’ He says, bringing his hands down to wipe his palms on his thighs. 

Is that disappointment Mickey can sense in his voice? Is Ian _allowed_ to be disappointed?

Ian pulls himself out of his seat to meet Mickey standing, making them much closer now than they had been with the table between them. Without that safety distance, Mickey can smell his cologne, it’s not too strong and smells delicious. Mickey wants to bury his face into it. 

Fuck. 

‘Thanks.’ Ian says, awkwardly bringing up an unsure hand before deciding to place it on Mickey’s shoulder. 

‘Yeah, whatever.’ Mickey says as he shakes it off, unable to deal with the closeness right now. ‘Text me the wedding details, if you still want me there.’ He waves his hand dismissively, unable to look Ian in the eye. His throat constricts at the thought of Ian changing his mind on him, _again_ , and Mickey needs to get out of there before he really does scream. 

‘Yeah, Mick.’ Ian breathes, ‘I do.’ 

Mickey nods, and steps backwards, ‘I’ll see you then, I guess.’ He says awkwardly, turning away quickly before Ian can respond. He walks straight out of the bar, onto the sidewalk and right around the block before he doubles over, attempting to get his wrecked breathing under control. He feels like he just ran a marathon or hiked up fucking Everest. 

His breath comes out in shaky stutters, his chest hurts. He just wants to go to sleep, or drink, or find some twink to fuck. Anything to get his fucking mind off of the last hour’s conversation. He spits onto the sidewalk then leans his full weight against the brick wall as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it. 

A shaky hand brings it to his lips, and he breathes it in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is almost finished and it's already at 15k so brace yourselves. i'm looking to see if i can chop it in half anywhere but it isn't looking likely. 
> 
> kudos, comments and any sort of feedback is so highly appreciated! 
> 
> lots of love and stream stupid love by lady gaga 
> 
> [follow me on twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian) and [on tumblr](https://https://oforamuse.tumblr.com/)  
> xoxo


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy. this and the next chapter were originally one big chapter but it was like 15k words and i managed to find a place to cut it. 
> 
> enjoy

Mickey doesn’t know why the fuck he agreed to this. He barely slept a wink last night, most of it spent staring at the cracks in his ceiling and willing himself to get at least an hour in. He’s gonna be a crabby motherfucker today, which is exactly what he doesn’t need when dealing with the Gallaghers for the first time in almost a decade. 

A decade. _Jesus Christ_. 

He sighs as he stares at himself combing through his hair in the mirror, he doesn’t know why he’s trying to look put together, it’s not like he really fucking cares what they think of him. 

Well, he cares what _one_ of them thinks of him. 

It’s been nine years and yet Ian still makes his stomach ache, he feels like he’s about to hurl, is it too late to call it off altogether and just get mind blowingly drunk by himself? 

He doesn’t think he’s felt this nervous before anything in his life. 

He’s borrowing a suit off one of the guys he works with the promise that he’d get it dry cleaned and returned without an issue. Not sure why the Roy was so hung up over it, it ain’t special or fancy or anything, but it fits Mickey well. 

‘What are you doing?’ Mandy pops up behind him, appearing in the mirror. Her face draws in confusion when she catches his outfit. ‘The fuck you looking all fancy for?’ 

‘Got a thing.’ Mickey grunts, reaching for his cologne on the shelf. He sprays a little, then sprays a little more, perhaps going a little overboard. 

‘Well you smell like shit.’ Mandy quips, leaning against the door frame behind him. ‘What’s the thing?’ 

‘None of your fuckin’ business that’s what it is.’ Mickey snaps, his fingers running along fixing his lapel. He knows that he’d never hear the end of it if he mentions Ian, or the Gallaghers in general for that matter. He never got to the bottom of what happened between his sister and Lip, he doesn’t particularly care but he knows it’s good to avoid mentioning anything or anyone involved altogether. His phone buzzes from where it’s resting on the bath side, he looks down quickly, knowing it’ll be from Ian. His fingers itch to reach for it but before he can grab it, Mandy snatches it from the side and begins to read it, painstakingly, out loud. His stomach drops. 

‘Why is Ian outside?’ Mandy asks, her eyebrows raised questioningly. Mickey lurches forward and grabs the phone out of her hand. Her eyes are drawn and suspicious. ‘What you doin’ with _him_ that’s so fancy?’ 

‘Fuck off.’ He spits, ignoring her protests as he stomps out of the bathroom and into the hallway. He gives himself one more check over in the mirror beside the front door before pocketing his phone and his wallet. 

_Fuck_ , he hopes there’s an open bar. 

He doubles back quickly to the kitchen, pulling open the cupboard where they store their booze and grabs the closest bottle of what he hopes is a strong liquor. He twists off the cap deftly and shoots it straight from the bottle. It’s rum, dark spiced rum, which burns as it smoothly goes down and settles into his uneasy stomach. He takes one more for good measure, spluttering slightly and wipes his hand across his mouth to catch any rogue liquid. 

He leaves his apartment without saying goodbye to Mandy and clambers down the four flights of stairs. _He can do this_ , the liquid courage sitting in his stomach tells him, the memory of it’s burning sensation sitting in his throat. 

He holds his breath. 

Ian’s leaning against the lamppost outside when he gets to the glass front door, and _fucking_ Lord almighty, he looks good. His ginger hair is gelled back neatly, but not too tightly so there’s a little height to it. He’s dressed in a deep dark green suit which looks almost black in this lighting, and it goes heartbreakingly well with his eyes. Mickey wouldn’t be able to look away even if someone paid him. He gulps. 

‘Hey.’ Ian says casually as Mickey steps out to meet him. He doesn’t miss the way Ian’s eyes rake quickly over him, drinking him in. Mickey shoves his hands subconsciously in his pockets as a response, unsure what to do with that observation. 

‘Yeah.’ He says, already itching for a smoke, his hands patting his sides to no avail. Fuck, he forgot his cigarettes. ‘We gonna get this shit over with, or what?’ 

Ian smiles but rolls his eyes, ‘I figured we could just catch a cab from here?’ 

‘Whatever man, you’re paying.’ Mickey shrugs, ‘Where the fuck is it anyway?’ 

‘This small place up in Washington Heights, it ain’t far.’ Ian answers, stepping out into the road and deftly whistling down a cab. 

Mickey really shouldn’t find that as attractive as he does. His knees shouldn’t feel like they are about to give out and his heart shouldn’t feel like it’s about to shoot up his throat, but they do. 

Fuck, this is going to be a long day. 

The cab pulls up in front of Ian and he turns over his shoulder to gesture Mickey to come forward. He holds open the door for Mickey, bowing like a fucking gentleman and it takes everything in him not to bite out a snide remark to cover up how fucking nervous he’s feeling. Mickey slides into the seat and shoves his hands between his thighs. Something in Mickey’s stomach swirls nauseously as Ian comes round the side and slides in next to Mickey, rather than up by the driver like he’d had expected. 

‘West 175th, please.’ Ian calls out front, before leaning back to click himself in. Mickey stares out of the window as they pull away from his apartment, willing himself not to break and look over in Ian’s direction. He never gets the privilege of seeing the city from the comfort of a cab so he relishes in it for a moment, usually residing on the subway or one of the slow shitty bus services. They drive smoothly for a few minutes, pulling onto the Harlem River Drive, cars passing quickly around them. He’s lost in watching his surroundings when the driver pulls to a sudden stop, cursing loudly in the front. The sudden movement causes both men in the back to lurch forward then straight back into their seats, with Ian’s knee suddenly touching his in this new position. Mickey sucks in a deep breath, his eyes locked on their sudden point of contact. 

‘Fuck.’ Ian swears, adjusting his seat belt from where it had got twisted in the bump, shifting in his seat to turn Mickey. ‘You good?’ 

Mickey nods, unable to stutter out a proper response. Ian doesn’t shift his knee back to its original position, he lets it sit there, ever so pressed against Mickey’s. It’s too much and not enough all at once. They both stay there, staring out of their opposite windows, well aware of the tension settling between the two of them. Everything feels heightened, the sounds of the city’s traffic, the smell wafting in from the driver’s air freshener, Mickey’s breath catching in his throat. He rests his head against the cool glass, eyes closed and lets himself breathe. 

He can feel Ian’s eyes drilling into the back of his head, and he wonders if the other man is going to be brave enough to break the silence that they’ve been sitting in. He doesn’t know if he wants him to or not. 

‘You look good.’ 

Mickey’s head snaps left to face Ian, who’s looking at him with a sheepish expression on his face, forehead slightly creased. Mickey doesn’t know how to get his head around the information that Ian still clearly finds him attractive, it sits heavily in his stomach. 

‘Shut up.’ Mickey fires back though there’s no bite to it, waving a hand in Ian’s direction dismissively. ‘You don’t.’ 

He’s lying, obviously, given that he just almost had a near internal meltdown seeing the other man for the first time today. 

‘Yeah, yeah okay.’ Ian says quietly, a small fond smile playing on his lips. ‘I’m sure.’ 

It occurs to Mickey that Ian is flirting with him and is suddenly acutely aware of their legs pressed up against one another, seemingly too intimate for the back seat of a cab. He shifts uncomfortably, moving his knee and turning back to face away from him. He doesn’t miss the way a flash of unease goes across Ian’s face, though it’s gone almost as quickly as it came. It’s so easy for them to fall back into their playful teasing, both men can feel it, and it makes Mickey’s heart _hurt_. He wonders if Ian’s heart is hurting too. 

He hopes it is. 

But, _fuck_ , he never wants Ian to be hurting. 

He shoves the palms of his hands into his eyes, where the fuck was all of this when he needed it? When he was sitting in that goddamn cell hoping that the next day would be different, that Ian’s flirty smile would turn the corner and they’d both run off into the goddamn sunset together. 

This is so fucked up. 

He’s drawn out of his internal monologue by the cab coming to stop outside a simple looking church on their right side. It’s old but not too old cause it’s American, and nothing is ever really _that_ old. It’s pretty, Mickey notes, there’s bright flowers hanging off the window box and short trimmed grass outside. 

It’s incredibly North Side. 

Didn’t think he’d ever see one of Canaryville’s own getting hitched in a place like this, but to be fair, he didn’t think he’d ever see a Gallagher ever again so times apparently are changing. 

‘Thanks for the ride.’ Ian says, leaning over to the front seat to slip the guy some cash. ‘You ready?’ He asks, placing a hesitant hand on his knee. He knows it’s supposed to be a comforting gesture but it stings, and he jerks away, opening the car door. He slips out, leaving Ian still seated and leans against the door as he waits for the other man to join him, the car’s dull engine lulls. It’s a nice day, the sun is high and the sky is clear, nicer than usual for a February afternoon so he’s not going to complain about that at least. He closes his eyes and breathes for a moment as he hears Ian slam his car door shut, and come round to meet him on his side. 

‘You don’t have to do this.’ Ian whispers hesitantly, and Mickey opens one eye to squint at him through the sun. His face is twisted in concern, which is so goddamn endearing that it hurts, like he knows how much of a big deal it is that Mickey is even here. 

‘I know.’ He grunts a little too sharply, pushing off from the window and crossing his arms. Ian steps back hesitantly, treading carefully. Mickey softens, his shoulders dropping. ‘Sorry… I just really wish I had a smoke, ya know?’ 

Ian grins and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a marlboro and lighter, holding them out in his palm for Mickey to take, ‘Go for it.’ He says. Mickey raises his eyebrows, impressed. 

He takes the offering and lights it quickly, using his hand to shield it from the wind. Their taxi pulls away behind them, leaving the two men standing on the sidewalk as Mickey smokes slowly, biding his time. He offers the cigarette to Ian, who takes it deftly and brings it up to his lips. He closes his eyes as he inhales, his chin arching towards the sky and Mickey lets himself look. He traces the other man’s strong shoulders, up his neck and along his strong jaw. There’s no trace of stubble across his cheeks, though it looks freshly shaven this morning. So much of Ian’s features have changed and ages over the years they’ve been apart and yet so much is still the same. There’s a couple of new scars, one in particular on his forehead by his right eyebrow, which Mickey doesn’t remember from before. He wonders how Ian got it and who nursed him through it. Who cleaned his cuts, stitched him up and kissed him better when Mickey wasn’t there to do it. 

When Mickey was sitting in a cell practically rotting away for the best part of 6 years. He shudders, reality slapping him in the face. 

Ian’s eyes flutter back home as he exhales, catching Mickey staring at him and he holds his gaze. He smirks knowingly before removing the cigarette from his lips and stepping it out on the ground. Fucking bastard. 

‘Ay! Ian.’ 

Shit. Mickey knows that voice. _Showtime_. 

Lip Gallagher walks up the street towards them and he looks exactly like the same asshole Mickey used to know except his head is shaven and his muscles have filled out slightly. There’s a pretty looking blonde woman walking behind him, pushing a young baby in front of her. 

Must be the kid Ian was talking about, Mickey thinks, _here we fucking go_. 

‘How ya doing man.’ Lip greets, slapping his brother on the shoulder like Mickey has seen him do so many times before, before stepping back and looking at him. His face is clear, expressionless. ‘I have to say, I thought you were fuckin’ joking about Mickey.’ 

Mickey rolls his eyes, clearly Lip’s still the same mouthy asshole then. They never really saw eye to eye when they were kids, Lip made it pretty obvious how he thought Mickey wasn’t good enough for his brother, never directly to his face but in the snide off hand comments. After he broke up with Mandy all he heard for weeks was how much of a piece of shit he was, so really, the guy doesn’t have a great rep. He knows how close Ian is to Lip, and he wonders if the two ever trash talked him the way that he has imagined so many times. Laughing at Mickey’s misfortune and thanking their lucky stars that they managed to rid themselves of their Milkovich siblings. 

‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever.’ He mutters, and he’s suddenly horribly aware of how vulnerable he is. Here he is, at a fucking wedding, with people he hasn’t seen in years. People, he thought he was carving a relationship with all those years ago, but apparently didn’t care enough to even try and reach out to him once in prison. 

God, what the fuck is he doing? 

He doesn’t notice his hands are shaking until Ian’s fingers come to rest lightly on them down at his side. He flinches away from the contact, it’s too much to bear, even that light brushing of his finger tips. Ian nods, shifting his hand away. 

His chest shouldn’t ache, but it does. 

‘Good to see you too, Phillip.’ Mickey grunts, ‘Pleasure as fuckin’ always.’ 

‘So what, they uh, they let you out early? That good behaviour kind of thing?’ Lip says, using a tone of voice that Mickey can’t quite figure out if it’s a jab at his expense so he just scowls. 

‘He’s been out for a couple years, Lip.’ Ian says matter of factly, like Mickey isn’t standing right the fuck there, and he places a firm hand on Mickey’s shoulder. 

It’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too much. Yet, he doesn’t shake him off. 

The blonde woman and the baby have caught up to them by now and Mickey has to suppress his feet’s itching urge to bolt. She puts her arms around Ian, pulling him into a hug and knocking his hand from Mickey’s shoulder in the process. 

The loss of touch shouldn’t sting, but it does. 

‘Mick, this is Tami and baby Fred.’ Ian says, when he’s released and he steps back to open up their little circle properly. ‘Tami, this is, uh-’ He stops hesitantly, ‘This is Mickey.’

The pause shouldn’t make Mickey’s stomach drop, but it does. 

‘Nice to meet you, Mickey.’ She says, friendly enough, though she turns her attention back to the other boys almost instantly before waiting to see if Mickey responds. He doesn’t. ‘Have you guys heard from Vee? She sent me a text to say they’re running late.’ 

‘Yeah, Kev texted me. They’ll be here soon.’ Lip replies casually, leaning down to fix the baby’s shoe he’d kicked off onto the pavement. Mickey sways slightly at the mention of old names he used to know, his jaw clenching in a way to ground him. It doesn’t help. 

‘So how do you know Fiona, Mickey?’ Tami asks, clearly going out of her way to force conversation, and the question hangs awkwardly. Mickey can’t quite figure out if she’s just being polite and she doesn’t know, or if she does and she’s trying to do some digging.

Has Ian ever talked about him? He doesn’t know how long this Tami chick has been in the picture, obviously more than 9 months, but does that warrant a mention? A ‘ _oh my ex-boyfriend is in prison because he got locked away for some bullshit after a bitch sold me out to the army. I broke up with him as soon as it happened and now I am happy as fuck.’_ casual dropped into conversation? Mickey knows he’s being ridiculous, he doesn’t give a shit if they’ve talked about him or not, or so he tells himself. 

He doesn’t. He doesn’t give a shit. 

‘We, uh, we all go way back.’ Ian replies for him, which shouldn’t irritate him as much as it does. Lips snorts obnoxiously and God, Mickey really could lay one into him. Tami shakes her head, visibly confused at the entire exchange between the three men, before going back behind Fred’s stroller. 

‘We should go in- take our seats.’ She says, and Lip nods, following slowly behind her as she pushes the baby away into the church. He throws Mickey one more look before he disappears inside. 

‘I don’t need you to speak for me, Gallagher.’ Mickey bites, rubbing his eyes self consciously and wishing he was somewhere else. Ian’s breath hitches next to him and he steps closer on the sidewalk. 

‘I know, I-’ Ian breathes, ‘I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.’ 

‘Good fuckin’ job.’ He says, irritated and with no qualms about hiding it. He pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes. He knows Ian was trying to help, in some weird twisted way, but he doesn’t need a knight in shining armour. He isn’t made of glass, he isn’t going to just shatter and break. Even when he feels like he might. 

‘Do you want to leave?’ Ian sighs, exasperation clear in his voice. Multiple people around him entering the church call out his name in greeting or wave in his general direction, Ian nods politely at them all. ‘See you in there!’ He calls after someone Mickey has never seen in his life. He’s missed observing the way Ian interacts with other people, sometimes so gentle yet sometimes so horribly snarky and blunt. It always used to keep loudmouth teenage Mickey on his toes, wondering whether or not Ian was going to slap back his snide remark with a self deprecating joke or throwing back something just as hard hitting. He’s missed just being around him in casual situations, seeing him laugh and smile and joke around, all of that was so rare in those last few days they were together. It aches to think about. 

Fuck no, Mickey doesn’t want to leave. 

‘No.’ He says, shaking his head and quickly before he can back track, he heads directly for the church’s open front door. ‘Missed out on nine years of pissin’ your family off, might as well take the opportunity. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth and all that crap.’ He rambles before stopping and turning back to Ian, ‘You coming?’ 

Ian rolls his eyes but jogs over to Mickey, ‘Asshole.’ He quips when he reaches him, playfully flicking Mickey on the ear. 

‘Oh, is it gonna be like that then?’ Mickey challenges, eyebrows raised. ‘Cause you know I’ve got your ass beat.’ His momentary anger dissipating. 

‘No talking about beating in the Lord’s house.’ Ian responds, mimicking holding his hands together for prayer as they walk through the threshold. 

‘Oh yeah, cause you’re so fuckin’ Godly.’ Mickey fires back, ‘I wonder if our Lord knows how you like to give it up the ass.’ The joke falls out so naturally that Mickey doesn’t have time to register he’s made a crack about their previous sex life until it’s already been said. 

Fuck, they used to go at it like rabbits sometimes. Especially in those few months they lived together at Mickey’s house, where they didn’t have to share a room with two other siblings. He knows some of it was down to the hyper-sexualisation Ian was going through due his manic episode but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have a great fucking time, all hours of the day and night. Even when they were younger and working together at the Kash and Grab, stealing every possible moment to head back into the freezer and rub one out. Blood shoots down to Mickey’s crotch at the memory and he stops, stomach nauseous. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt both like he’s about to hurl and incredibly turned on at once before. 

_Jesus_ , he needs to get laid. 

‘Or how you like to take it.’ Ian laughs, throwing back the wit Mickey had offered, taking him a second to realise Mickey isn’t still walking next to him, Mickey’s entire internal breakdown breezing right past him. He looks back at him, his forehead creased with concern. ‘You good?’ 

‘Yeah.’ He gulps, but he doesn’t move an inch. Ian moves quickly to him, placing a firm hand on his upper arm. The touch sends something electric through him and he squashes the habit of shaking it off. ‘Just, you know-’ He stops, and rubs a palm into his eyes. 

Something changes on Ian’s face as it dawns on him, and Mickey watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. ‘Yeah, I know.’ Ian looks up at him uncharacteristically shyly and sweeps his hand down to catch Mickey’s. They’re close, they’re so close. 

Their hands stay connected for a moment, it’s foreign and weird and full of history but Mickey isn’t able to bring himself to let go. 

‘You good to find our seats?’ Ian asks, and Mickey nods, pulling his hand back and stuffing it into his pocket. He catches a moment of disappointment flash across Ian’s face at the action, but he chooses not dwell on it, time and place, and all that. 

They walk slowly into the hall and Mickey hears some cheesy classical violin shit playing as they approach, there’s flowers everywhere and everything feels a little too put together for him. He remembers his own wedding, the fucking sham of it all, thrown together quickly by his dad so he literally had no choice but to go with it. He fucking hates that he let it happen, hates himself every single day for the pain he caused everyone, but especially Ian, by being to fucking scared of himself. He wishes he could go back and shake that scared teenage kid by the shoulders and tell him to _man the fuck up_ and save everyone a lot of grief. 

Though he also knows that eighteen year old Mickey would’ve probably stabbed him for that. 

The main hall is full of chatter and people hugging each other when they enter, it’s grossly intimate and Mickey is immediately uncomfortable. He feels eyes on him as they walk slowly down the aisle to an empty pew a few rows from the front. He swallows deeply as he sees Kevin and Vee sitting in the row opposite, wrestling two young girls into their seats who seem to be fighting over something held in one’s hand. Kevin catches his eye. 

‘Mickey Milkovich as I live and breathe!’ Kev booms, his arms flailing out to his sides. ‘How you doin’ you convict?!’ Vee’s head shoots up in his direction, her jaw dropping as she registers Mickey’s presence and he suddenly wishes the ground would swallow him whole. 

_‘Mickey!?’_

Fuck, that’s Debbie Gallagher’s voice. The one Gallagher sibling you can always count on hearing before you see her. As he predicted, she pops up at the end of their row with a young looking blonde kid hanging onto her hip. She doesn’t look a huge amount different from when Mickey last saw her, which is saying something cause the kid always insisted on growing up so much faster than she should’ve. 

‘I mean, Ian mentioned you were coming but I didn’t believe him!’ She says with her old childlike excitement, ‘This is Franny, say hello to Mickey Franny.’ She instructs the shy looking girl, shaking her on the shoulder in encouragement. 

‘Hi.’ Franny peeps, who looks as if she can’t be older than 8 or so. 

‘Hi.’ Mickey huffs unenthusiastically, too caught up with getting his head around seeing all these people who know him, who have expectations and opinions about him, for the first time in almost a decade. 

‘You excited, Franny?’ Ian asks, leaning over Mickey to reach her at the end of the pew. He’s so close he might as well be sitting in his lap with the way their legs are pressed against each other. Mickey shivers. ‘You look so pretty!’ 

The small girl nods and giggles, beaming at her Uncle Ian with fond admiration, reminding Mickey so much of Debbie when she was younger. Watching them interact, Mickey realises he’d forgotten how well Ian got on with kids, he was an instant caretaker when it came to those younger than him and always held them in his hands so gently. Even in the middle of the episode when he’d stolen Yevgeny and driven him out of the state, he knew that Ian had meant well and would’ve never actually let any harm come to him. He was good with kids, really good with them. 

A lot better than Mickey ever was, or would ever be. 

‘I can’t wait for you all to see Fiona’s dress!’ Debbie says, clapping her hands together with glee. Her expression changes, ‘Shit, gotta get into position! Being a bridesmaid and all that is hard work, Franny why don’t you squeeze in next to Uncle Ian? Go on, good girl!’ She ushers her daughter into their row and Ian shifts to make space, leaning even further into Mickey’s personal space. Not that he minds. 

‘Vee, we gotta go!’ Debbie calls, grabbing Veronica and dragging her back down the aisle to where Mickey assumes the bridesmaids have to hang out. 

People continue to pour into the church, taking their seats all around them. He clocks Carl Gallagher sliding into the seat in front of him with a younger looking black boy. 

_Jesus_ , is that Liam? 

There’s not a stronger indication of how much time has passed than a kid who must’ve been 4 or 5 at the time of his arrest looking like an actual human being. Carl turns, looking at Mickey for a second before holding out a fist to bump. 

‘Hey.’ He says simply, and Mickey snorts, the kid never was one for formalities. He appreciates the lack of fuss and meets Carl’s fist with his. ‘How was prison?’. Liam’s eyes widen with surprise at the casual yet personal question and Mickey hears Ian make a noise of protest before he interrupts him. 

‘It was prison, man.’ Mickey answers curtly, ‘It ain’t rainbows and sunshine, lotsa homemade shivs.’ He adds.

‘Cool.’ Carl grins, nodding slowly with what Mickey can only assume is admiration. Ian’s younger brother always had a weird habit of looking up to Mickey and his criminal activities, clearly that hasn’t changed with time. 

‘Oh, er, Liam...this is Mickey.’ Ian says, his voice low and cautious. ‘He knew you when you were a baby.’ 

Liam’s eyes narrow at Mickey suspiciously, ‘He knew me?’ He asks. 

‘Well, he kinda lived with us for a while.’ Ian says, running a hand through his hair awkwardly. 

‘Why?’ Liam asks with youthful curiosity, and it makes Mickey wince but he gets it, it’s weird when you see someone you supposedly knew as a kid for the first time in years. He’s kinda feeling it the other way too, staring at a teenage Liam who has no clue the history sitting between them. The weight of the question hangs there heavily, Ian’s mouth shaping a few words in a search for a response but nothing successfully comes out. 

‘They used to fuck.’ Carl cuts in, breaking the tension with a knowing grin. Liam looks suddenly taken aback and he hears Franny gasp beside them. His hands clench, his nails digging into his palm. 

‘Carl.’ Ian says firmly, glaring at his younger brother. Both men may be adults now, but it’s still so juvenile. 

‘What?’ He says, holding his hands up in innocence. ‘Oh sorry, they were _boyfriends_.’ He corrects himself, dragging out the end of the word ‘boyfriends’ for emphasis. Mickey’s cheeks flush uncharacteristically with unwarranted embarrassment, the heat rising.

Jesus Christ, could this get any worse? 

‘Fuck off.’ Mickey snaps uncomfortably, despite the fact what Carl said was the truth. He lulls his head back, exhausted by his discomfort, and lets himself take a moment to stare at the church’s ceiling. If he was a religious person, he’d be praying right now for something to come crashing into the building and wiping everyone, himself included, out. 

‘Carl.’ Ian reprimands, hitting his brother in the back of the head, ‘Shut the fuck up.’ 

He looks over at Mickey sheepishly, as if to say sorry for his brother’s unhelpful-ness, which makes Mickey feel all kinds of weird. It hurts to think about who they used to be but there’s some comfort to be found in not having to explain himself. They haven’t exactly spoken much about their old days together, and Mickey swallows at the realisation that the subject is probably going to come up a lot in the next few hours. 

There’s a sudden shift in the music and everyone excitedly sits down in their seats, turning to the front of the hall. This guy steps out to the altar, he’s tall and brunette, looking very much like a typical North Side business guy from somewhere like Edison Park or Beverly. He rolls his eyes because of course Fiona would nab someone with a lot of money to spare, she always had that sort of knack when it came to guys. He’s joined by the priest and this goofy looking guy Mickey assumes is the best man. 

The classic wedding procession music begins and everyone else turns to look behind them, Mickey moving a second behind everyone to catch up. Veronica enters first, obviously head bridesmaid, with Debbie following close behind. They smile and throw handfuls of petals in the air, it’s all very cute and kitsch. Fiona enters, wearing this floor length white wedding dress that looks like something she never would’ve dreamt of being able to afford all those years ago. Mickey’s willing to bet that she probably can’t even afford it now. He groans as he joins everyone else standing as she walks down the aisle, her eyes glossing over him as she smiles and waves to everyone. She joins everyone at the front and the priest instructs them all to take a seat, thank God. 

The ceremony continues relatively uneventfully, Mickey zones out for most of it, trying to focus on something that isn’t Ian pressed up right next to him during a day that is supposed to be dedicated to love. His focus is pulled back in during the vows. 

‘Do you Fiona Gallagher, take Gregory Smith, to be your lawfully wedded husband?’ 

_‘You gonna marry me?’_ Ian has asked on that fucking awful day, eyes dull and his voice broken. Mickey swallows at the painful memory, shifting his head slightly so Ian’s side profile comes into view beside him. On that day Mickey had told Ian to fuck off at the thought of marriage, but now, nine years later, he can’t help but think what if. 

What if Mickey had just said, _fuck it, let’s get married_ , where would they be?

‘In sickness and in health.’ 

His head pounds and with every thump against his skull he sees the image of Ian’s sunken face as they sat in that goddamn doctor’s surgery and his heart breaking whilst being told he had to live with his disorder for at least 40 years. There was no quick fix, nothing really to fix, because he wasn’t broken, he was just...Ian. Chemically unbalanced and all kinds of fucked up but heart achingly perfect, Ian. 40 years of having to deal with the highs and lows of Ian Gallagher but Mickey had been ready to do it, he’d already dropped practically everything for the kid. He was in it for the long hall, he thought they both were. 

He’s thought back on that period of their lives so many times in the last few years, hours spent recounting at the pale walls in his prison cell. Wondering where he went so wrong with the balance of being Ian’s boyfriend and his caretaker, a role he hadn’t meant to fall in to but did. Would anything be different had he not taken such a full on responsibility, and apparently, suffocated Ian? He knows he was doing the right thing, he knows deep down he was, he’s always known that. He can’t help but wonder if all the shit between them that happened was his fault, as always, and could’ve been avoided somehow. 

It’s his fault that Ian’s bipolar was triggered so severely, he’s not stupid, he knows this. It’s never been spoken out loud but it didn’t take him long after being locked up to figure out the correlation between his wedding with Svetlana and Ian’s sudden shift in mental health.

He hates himself, he hates himself every day for it.

His fists ball in his lap, he has to draw his eyes away from Fiona at the front and down to his feet because he feels like he might vomit. 

Ian shifts next to him, his eyes catching his. ‘You okay?’ He mouths, picking up on Mickey’s obvious discomfort. 

‘To love and to cherish you.’ He hears Fiona say, and it hurts. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly. 

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

He’d told Ian that he loved him and Ian taken that love and thrown it back in his face, letting him get locked up for six fucking years without a single word. A love that had taken Mickey years of painstakingly cautious building, a love he held so dearly close to his chest that even saying the words out loud felt like a victory. A few moments of victory, that ultimately ended in a loss. 

A hand touches his knee.

And yet, here Ian was. 

They both know what’s racing through Mickey’s brain, he’s got a suspicion it’s going through Ian’s too. They don’t need to acknowledge it with words. Not right now, at least. 

He feels like he’s being dunked underwater as he watches Fiona’s almost husband recount the vows back to her. He can’t hear anything, he barely registers what he’s seeing. They kiss, he thinks. People are clapping and hollering at the married couple and he can’t think clearly.

Two hands grip his upper arms. ‘I got you.’ Ian says softly, as all but pulls Mickey out of his pew. He nudges him lightly and Mickey has to remind himself how to fucking walk. 

When did he get so fucking weak?

He gulps and shakes Ian’s grip off, though the sensation remains. 

‘I need a fuckin’ beer.’ He mutters, falling into the crowd of people all wandering out of the church, Ian silently at his side. ‘Where’s the booze?’ 

‘We’ve got to get another taxi, the reception is back downtown.’ Ian explains, sighing at Mickey’s scowl in response. 

‘They couldn’t fuckin’ coordinate that shit?’ Mickey growls, irritated. ‘Same place and same time that shit.’ He just wanted to be black out drunk, and fast. They get herded out onto the sidewalk again, there’s confetti everywhere and people won’t stop cheering. 

Why the fuck did he agree to this again? Because right now, all he’s gotten out of it is a stomach ache. 

Well, he knows why he agreed to it. He’s standing right next to him.

‘It won’t take too long, Mick.’ Ian replies and Debbie comes bounding up to them, her kid trailing behind.

‘I can’t believe Fiona’s married! Like, _married_ married! And this time she told us about it!’ She crows, her hands coming up excitedly to her cheeks. 

Ian smiles softly, his gaze still fixed directly on Mickey, ‘Yeah, it’s real great.’ 

‘Okay you two, together!’ She instructs, pulling out a camera from a bag Mickey hadn’t even noticed she was carrying. 

‘Debs-’ Ian says, stepping forward with a hand in protest, she shoves him lightly back in place at Mickey’s side. 

‘Smile!’ 

It must be the ugliest fucking photo ever because Mickey can feel himself scowling like a motherfucker. 

‘Easy, little miss sunshine.’ Mickey barks through his clenched teeth, his vision reeling from the flash. 

‘She fuckin’ did it!’ Lip says, he walks up to them on the sidewalk and throws an arm around Ian’s shoulders, without sparing Mickey much of a glance. ‘We sharing a cab downtown?’ 

Mickey groans, as if the day couldn’t get infinitely worse, he’s about to get stuck in a small moving vehicle with Lip fucking Gallagher. Sensing his agitation, Ian throws him a look which Mickey reads as: _play nice._

‘Yeah, I figure we could save on the fare then.’ Ian says, and Lip nods. 

‘I’m not fuckin’ paying.’ Mickey snaps, raising his eyebrows at Lip as if to say _challenge me motherfucker_. 

‘You don’t have to pay, Mick.’ Ian tells him, slipping out from under Lip’s arm and stepping out into the road to call another cab. ‘We’re meeting Fiona down there right?’ Lip nods and Ian successfully hails another cab, which pulls up to the sidewalk next to them. 

‘SHOT GUN MOTHERFUCKERS!’ Carl calls from out of nowhere, bounding over to them, pulling the front seat’s door open and jumping in. He presses up his middle fingers against the window in success. 

‘You guys get this one, we’ll get the next.’ Debbie instructs, her hand resting motherly on Franny’s head. ‘I left a few things in the dressing room anyway.’ The boys nod in agreement. 

Mickey pulls open the door and slides in to the opposite window, it’s a momentary relief from the Gallagher family bonding he stupidly fucking agreed to. He gets so distracted by counting his breathing that he doesn’t notice Lip sliding in awkwardly next to him until he’s already there and clicked in. 

He was wrong before, this is it, this is how his day can get infinitely worse. 

‘ _Jesus fucking Christ._ ’ He swears, taking a deep breath in and shifting himself to make as much distance between himself and the other Gallagher brother as he possibly can. 

‘You got a problem?’ Lip asks, disinterested but clearly trying to get a rise out of him. 

‘Fuck off.’ Mickey bites, turning to Lip with a forced fake smile and flipping him off. 

‘Knock it off, guys.’ Ian sighs, as if the asshole couldn’t have just sat next to him and they could’ve avoided this whole issue. His stomach churns slightly at the thought of Ian actively choosing not to sit next to Mickey, especially after he had dragged him out here in the first place. Was it on purpose? Or just a coincidence that he ended up with the wrong Gallagher brother way too close in his personal space. 

Fuck, he’s being ridiculous. He presses his palms into his eyes as the car revs up and pulls away, and he lets himself get lost in the black spotty vision. He’s been doing that a lot recently, needing moments of pause just to collect himself. It’s unchartered territory and Mickey doesn’t like it one bit. 

The rest of the ride goes by relatively smoothly, it’s awkward and tense but no one (Mickey) ends up punching someone (Lip) so they could all probably call it a success. Carl rattles off in the front seat telling the driver about some gang he was part of back in Chicago. It’s hard to forget Carl’s in his mid 20s when he’s practically the same kid Mickey shared a beer with all those years ago, it’s comforting not to be constantly reminded of the time that has passed. They pull up outside this bougie looking place and Mickey registers that they’re now downtown in the financial district. 

‘Jesus, how much money does this guy have?’ He whistles, impressed. 

‘A lot.’ All three of the Gallagher brothers chime at the same time, it’s weird and seems rehearsed even though it can’t possibly be. They grin at each other and Mickey raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. Ian hands the driver a couple of bills and they all pile out onto the sidewalk. Mickey hangs back whilst the rest of them walk towards the entrance and Ian turns to him questioningly. 

‘You good?’ Ian asks, and it feels like he’s just repeating that phrase to him all day. 

‘Yeah, whatever. I’ll just…’ Mickey mutters, looking down at his feet to avoid the questioning gaze. Truthfully he feels like he’s going to vomit, even despite the fact he’s been gasping for a beer all day, he doesn’t know if he can convince himself to go into that party, free bar and all. Is free booze enough to handle a room full of Gallaghers and the constant stream of _‘you’re out of prison?_ ’, or even worse, the possibility of ‘ _what the fuck are you doing here?_ ’ 

A room full of people that know exactly what he was to Ian, what they were to each other, and who he was back then. It’s daunting and messy and Mickey just wants a fucking smoke. 

‘Hey.’ Ian comforts, stepping in closely. It’s an echo of the moment they had before the ceremony and Mickey can’t quite understand why this keeps happening, why he keeps needing to be reassured and held up by Ian.

‘Fuck’ Mickey swears, and Ian’s there, staring at him with understanding eyes. He doesn’t need to explain himself and in that moment, like in so many before with Ian, he doesn’t need to be the hard edged guy he’s played his entire life. 

‘Let’s get fucking drunk.’ Ian says, smiling softly. It’s all Mickey needs to hear. 

‘I’ll drink you under the damn table and you know it.’ Mickey mumbles and laughs quietly. ‘Only takes you one fuckin’ beer on those meds.’ and Ian winks, the fucker _winks_ , as if to say: _let’s go_ , and it takes everything in Mickey for his knees not to buckle there and then. He blinks, allowing his brain to catch up before jogging to catch up with Ian who’s already halfway to the door. 

He’s an asshole. 

The party room is set up with round tables and fancy place settings, there’s a long table at the end where Mickey assumes Fiona and the Greg guy will be sitting. A string band plays on a small stage and people are milling about before the food arrives, it’s probably the bougiest party set up Mickey has ever been to. Ian spots Lip, waving from the other side at the room seated at the closest table to the main one. Tami's there too, as is Carl and Kev. 

‘Mickey, my man.’ Kev greets, leaning over the table and clapping Mickey on the shoulder, ‘I’m not going to lie to you dude, I thought I was hallucinating when I saw you in that church.’ 

‘In the flesh.’ Mickey replies shortly, shifting slightly under Kevin’s friendly gaze. Back in the day he and Kev somewhat got on well, it got a little blurry when they were dealing with the rub and tug business at the Alibi but he always figured he was an alright guy. Even if there was that brief period Mickey wanted to kill him. 

‘Didn’t know they let your ass out of the clink!’ He says, which catches Tami’s attention, again adding to the theory that no one has really mentioned him in the last few years, ‘How’s things?’ 

Mickey swallows uncomfortably, ‘You know, they’re whatever.’ He says dismissively, looking around the room to find the bar he was promised. ‘Better than fuckin’ prison that’s for sure.’ 

‘You know Gemma and Amy- you remember my girls right? They’re so old now you wouldn’t even recognise them.’ Kevin continues, and Mickey hums as if he spent any time with them other than the days they happened to be at The Alibi. ‘Those little tykes around here somewhere.’ 

Ian places his hands on Mickey’s shoulders suddenly, making him jump. He gives him an apologetic shoulder squeeze. 

‘I’ll go find us some drinks?’ Ian says and Mickey shoots him _a please do not leave me alone with these people look_ , which Ian pointedly ignores. He leaves him, the bastard, to fend for himself. 

‘Fuck.’ Mickey swears, attempting to keep it under his breath but he’s pretty sure he didn’t actually succeed. 

‘It’s been what, five years?’ Kev asks as Mickey slips unenthusiastically into the chair in front of him. 

‘Nine.’ Mickey grunts, tapping his fingers on the table linen. It’s a good colour, a nice choice. 

_‘Nine_ goddamn years!’ Kev exclaims, ‘Woo, how time does fly!’ and he shakes his head at Mickey in disbelief, as if those years weren’t the longest of Mickey’s fucking life. 

‘Not when you’re locked up.’ Mickey replies curtly, his fingers curling, ‘because of some _bitch-’_ , he stops himself, incredibly aware of everyone’s attention on him, it’s suffocating and too much. 

Only 2 minutes in and he already needs a breather. 

‘I’m gonna go piss.’ He mutters, jumping back up and out of there as quickly as he can. He spots an arrow on the other side of the hall reading ‘toilets’ so he follows it out into the hallway. 

He’s halfway towards the bathroom when he hears it. 

_‘Mickey!?’_

There’s his fucking name again, and honestly, after today he’s going to consider changing it. He’s getting real fucking sick of hearing it. He whips around to see who called but there’s no one else in the hallway. 

‘Mickey!?’ He hears his name again, so he stops, noticing a door to his left. There’s ‘KITCHEN’ written on the front in big lettering and there’s a small window where he can see Fiona leaning against a counter, wedding dress and all. He steps forward, wondering whether he should open the door and respond but their voices start again. 

‘You said you were bringing someone, you didn’t say it was Mickey fuckin’ Milkovich!’ Fiona cries, it’s muffled by the glass but it still comes through clearly. She throws her arms out dramatically, ‘Did everyone else know?’ 

He ducks to the side, making sure she can’t see him through the window but so he still has clear access to what's going on inside. Mickey’s confused, Ian said that he would tell Fiona beforehand so this exact situation didn’t happen, did he lie? 

‘Fiona…’ The man in question steps into view, leaning against the door on the other side. He’s blocking Mickey’s view of Fiona through the window but he can’t say he minds, considering he’d rather look at the back of Ian’s head than Fiona any day. A giant lump forms in Mickey’s throat. He places his hands flat against the door beside his head. 

‘How long have you been seeing him? _Jesus_ , why- why didn’t you tell me?’ 

‘Fiona, it’s not like that.’ Ian protests, and Mickey’s stomach drops to the floor. It’s like a bucket of ice cold water and he feels like he could keel over and pass out because everything suddenly fucking hurts. He knew that this was all too good to be true, hell, he’d even been kidding himself into halfway forgiving Ian. He should’ve known that this was all momentary, it was just pleasantries between two people who used to know each other whole lifetimes ago. He doesn't know what he expected, _fuck_ , how could he be so careless? His hands shake but he can’t pull himself away from the door. 

‘We’re just…’ Ian says, ‘It’s been nine years Fiona. I was going to say something, but I forgot…’

‘Yeah, nine fucking years because he was sitting in prison for _attempted murder._ ’ She bites, and Mickey physically winces at his prison sentence being thrown out there so casually.

‘He never- _Fiona_ , you know that’s not true.’ Ian says, his voice firm and clear. ‘I just bumped into him a few days ago, I promise.’ 

‘Do you really wanna get messed up in his shit again!? You’re doing so well.’ She yells, hands gesturing towards him. ‘Ian, it’s been _nine_ years.’ 

‘Fiona-’ 

‘He fucked you up so badly back in the day. Ian, I can’t see that happen again-’ She interrupts. 

‘Stop it.’ Ian says, and Mickey can hear the anger in his voice. ‘You don’t know shit about what we went through as kids. I’ve always, I-’ He stops himself and Mickey edges closer, despite knowing he should’ve left 30 seconds ago. 

‘What, Ian? Is he worth throwing all your progress away?’ She looks at him helplessly and Mickey can feel his blood boil.

_Fuck you. Fuck you, I cared about him more than any of you fuckers._

That’s it, he’s heard enough. He’s about to spin to leave, to hop on a subway and get the fuck out of there and this mess, when Ian’s voice stops him. 

‘Listen to me, I’m in a good place now. I fucked him over so badly- yes, Fiona I did. I fucked it up, it wasn’t him. I was a shitty kid and I ruined it and now, since seeing him again I haven’t been able to get him out of my head.’ Ian rambles and Mickey’s knees shake. His head feels like it’s about to explode and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do. ‘I, I want...this isn’t some, teenage thing and you know that.’ 

‘Ian.’ 

‘What?’ Ian says, and Mickey watches the back of his head shake back and forth. 

‘Have you taken your meds today?’ Fiona asks. 

‘What? Of course I’ve taken my meds, that was a-’

‘Are you on them? Right now? Because this-’

‘Fuck you. I’ve taken them.’ Ian bites, Mickey can see his anger shift. 

‘Ian…’

‘I just want to make it right by him if anything, make up for the six years he spent locked up for my ungrateful ass.’ Ian says exasperated, Mickey can tell he’s exhausted. He wonders how many times he’s had this conversation in the last few hours, with other people or himself. 

‘Be careful. Please.’ Fiona presses, moving forward to wrap her arms around Ian. They move quickly, catching Mickey off guard when the door swings open and he stands there like a deer in the headlights. 

‘Hey.’ He says innocently and he can see Ian doesn’t buy his ignorance one bit. 

‘Mickey.’ Fiona says, voice cracking. Her cheeks are flushed with embarrassment. It’s pretty obvious that he heard every word of their last conversation, ‘How are you?’ 

‘Great.’ He replies curtly, and they stand there awkwardly, Ian’s mouth gaping slightly. 

‘I didn’t mean, if you heard all _that-_ .’ She starts, pulling out the old innocent _I wasn’t just shit talking your ass_ Fiona act. 

‘Congrats.’ He says simply, and he can see them both surprised at the fact he isn’t characteristically blowing up at them, no matter how much he wants to. He can reign it in, prove her thoughts wrong, even if he does want to yell her down. 

His heart is stuck in his throat, and he can’t bring himself to look at Ian, so he resigns to looking at Fiona. 

‘I’m gonna go.’ He nods, before spinning on his heel and turning to leave. He hears Ian calling out his name but he ignores it as he pushes an emergency exit door open and he falls out into an alleyway. He knows Ian isn’t going to let him get away so easily so he takes a breather to prepare himself in the few seconds before the doors inevitably open and Ian comes crashing out. 

His feet itch, his heart thumping, he wants to leave. He wants to slip away, back to his apartment and lock himself in his room. He wants to stay. He wants to run. He wants to stop running. He wants to get so fucking drunk he can’t see straight and end up passed out on the floor. He wants to pull Ian into his arms and tell him he forgives him, kiss him, fuck him. He wants to push Ian away, once and for all, tell him fuck off back to Chicago and leave him alone. He wants to go back home, back to Chicago and the South Side. He never wants to leave the safety of the East Coast again. He wants Ian to hurt, to feel what he’s felt for the last 9 years. He never wants Ian to hurt, he wants to protect him from the world’s harm. He wants to scream and kick and punch, but he also wants to love and love and love. He wants Ian. He doesn’t want to want Ian. He wants, he wants, he wants. 

He presses his palms into his eyes. 

Mickey Milkovich never gets what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: mickey isn't to blame for any ian's mental health issues, obviously - his narrative here is years worth of pent up repressed guilt that he's never been able to properly express. 
> 
> thank you so much for reading and more will be coming soon! thanks for the love w/ the oneshots i've posted this week, i really appreciate all the feedback i've been receiving, it really warms my heart. pls go check out say it (spit out) plus the others i've uploaded this week!
> 
> comments, kudos and feedback is very very very welcomed. 
> 
> [follow me on twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian) and [on tumblr](https://https://oforamuse.tumblr.com/)  
> xoxo


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, hope you're all safe and healthy. enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> comment and kudos if you liked it pls!

A moment barely passes before the door swings open, crashing loudly against the wall and Ian falls out into the side alley. His face torn and distraught. 

‘Mickey, I’m sorry.’ He says frantically, his eyes searching Mickey’s face for some acknowledgement or understanding. He runs his fingers through his ginger hair and Mickey feels hot anger rise in his chest, he wants to laugh in his face, he wants to scream. 

He can’t do _this_ anymore. 

‘I don’t need your fuckin’ tears.’ Mickey spits through gritted teeth, finally letting himself feel _hurt_ by what he heard, _hurt_ by what Ian did to him all those years ago, _hurt_ by his heart being still so intertwined with the man standing opposite him. It rolls out of him like waves, crashing against the rocks he’s held so dearly close for years. ‘You fuckin’ told me you’d speak to Fiona, tell her that I was coming- you gave me your word.’ 

He’s so exhausted by being let down by Ian. 

‘Mickey-’ Ian steps forward, causing Mickey to jump back, his back pressed up against the bricks. If he touches him right now he might actually burst into flames, or something equally as dramatic. 

‘You never fuckin’ keep your word.’ Mickey bites, and it’s devastating. He thinks he wants it to hurt but Ian’s face falls and all Mickey wants to do is take it back, take back his words and crush them in his hands. He doesn’t though, he can’t take them back because there’s part of it that rings true. A big, big part of it. He pushes through, jaw clenched. ‘I’m never fuckin’ good enough, not for you.’ 

‘I-’ Ian’s mouth gapes, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries to shape words in his throat. Nothing comes out, which just angers Mickey more. He can’t even deny it, he doesn’t even try. 

‘We’re not fuckin’ kids anymore- you think you can just come back in my life, come back here, and fuck it all up?’ Mickey says, and it’s like he’s there again, standing on that front porch with his heart crumbling in his hands. He feels like an idiot, like a fool. ‘You convinced me to come here, you did-’

‘Mickey, please.’ Ian cuts in, his eyes sad and pleading. ‘Listen to me-’ 

‘This was a mistake, this was a fuckin’ mistake and you know it.’ Mickey spits, his eyes stinging with the unwanted threat of tears. His hands splay out to his sides, he feels wild and finally, for once, out of control. ‘You were all so clearly better off without me. So you know what Gallagher, just go- be on your merry fuckin’ way, you don’t need my shit.’ 

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Ian counters, ‘Shut the fuck up.’ 

‘Don’t fuckin’ tell-’ Mickey lurches forward and pushes Ian back by the shoulders, ‘Fuck you, fuck you!’ 

Ian pushes him back and he slams against the brick wall, ‘The fuck is wrong with you!’ Ian cries, and it’s an echo of their adolescent years. Ian holds his forearm against Mickey’s chest, locking him in place so he can’t fight back. He tries, pushing against Ian’s chest but the other man has always been stronger than him. 

‘Get the fuck off me.’ Mickey spits, and he swears to God, he’s about to knee this asshole in the dick. 

‘What you heard in there was bullshit.’ Ian says firmly, pushing back against Mickey’s efforts ‘Stop fucking fighting and listen to me, asshole. Listen to me.’ 

‘Fuck you, bitch.’ Mickey growls, doubling up in his efforts to no avail. His hands come up to try and push against Ian’s shoulders, but Ian slams them back down, his back smacking against the brick wall from the force. 

They could be 16 again, they could be in the dugouts, or any one of the old dilapidated buildings they’d hang out in. But they’re not, they’re here, years later, and Mickey feels like he could explode. 

‘Fiona doesn’t know shit, you know that. I should’ve told her you were coming, I fucked up!’ Ian yells, they’re face to face and so incredibly close that Mickey can feel Ian’s angry, ragged breath on his face. He keeps struggling against Ian’s hold, cursing the fact that even though he’s been working out more, Ian’s still got one up on him. Ian pushes through, his voice earnest and urgent. ‘I fucked up, and I know that- I’ve never been more fuckin’ sorry about anything.’ 

They both know Ian isn’t just talking about the wedding. It’s heavy and weighted, it’s about everything. Everything they went through as kids, the break up, the cheating, the silence. Apologises are strange and foreign for them, hurt feelings when they were kids used to be brushed off with a _stop being a fucking pussy and deal with it._ How are they supposed to navigate this? If Ian’s struggling, when he was always the one who wanted to talk about things, how the fuck is Mickey supposed to deal with this? 

‘So listen to me asshole, when I say how I would fucking take it back.’ Ian continues, his breath ragged and broken. Mickey’s eyes meet his, shooting up in shock. 

‘Take back what?’ Mickey asks, his voice coming out more broken than he’d like. He’s given up. It’s embarrassing but he doesn’t want to let himself believe for a second what he’s hearing, not when it’s been everything he’s wanted for all these years. He can’t put himself through that sort of hope, not again, not after everything. 

‘Breaking up with you.’ Ian says simply, finally dropping his arm from Mickey’s chest. He steps back from Mickey and his stomach swirls, already missing, craving, the personal contact. He’s such a pussy. ‘Leaving you in prison...not visiting you because I was a fuckin’ coward.’ 

‘Ian…’ Mickey whispers, his breath hitching in his throat. His chest feels like it’s about to concave in on itself, it’s overwhelming and crushing. Is he about to pass out?

‘Please, I know you don’t trust me and I know that’s my fault but-’ Ian stops himself and Mickey can’t help watching his lips, hanging onto his every word. 

‘But what?’ Mickey presses, his jaw clenched tightly, it comes out broken. 

‘It’s always been you, all these fuckin’ years I’ve just been an idiot-’ Ian rambles, but it’s earnest and open and true. 

‘I-’ Mickey tries, his hands pressing firmly into his side so he doesn’t reach out, grab Ian and do something stupid. He swallows, he’s exhausted. ‘You’re just fucking say that, it’s only been a few days, you’ve not seen me for years, Gallagher.’ 

‘It’s always been you.’ Ian says, and he looks so much like a teenage girl hung up on her crush but Mickey doesn’t even have it in him to make fun of him because this is it. This is everything he’s wanted and all he wants to do is take it into his hands and cradle it forever. Cradle Ian, cradle his feelings for Ian and, when he allows himself to believe it, Ian’s feelings for him. 

6 years of waiting, 9 years of _nothing_ and Mickey’s about to throw the towel in and say fuck it. 

They’re suddenly interrupted by the door swinging open, it crashes against the wall as it swings and Lip hangs out of the threshold, staring at them. They jump apart like they’ve been shot at and Mickey doesn’t know whether to be grateful or pissed off. 

‘If you girls are done, you’re gonna miss the food.’ Lip says, staring at them blankly. His eyes narrow at Mickey before he throws a thumb behind him, ‘Get the fuck back in here or Fiona will be pissed.’ 

He turns and leaves, and they stay for a moment staring at one another. Neither one making the first move to go. 

‘We should- we should get back in there.’ Ian mutters, it’s awkward and it falls out heavily. ‘I know we’ve still got more to talk about.’ 

‘Yeah.’ Mickey swallows, shifting underneath Ian’s gaze. He takes a deep breath before giving in and throwing a playful punch against Ian’s shoulder, ‘You’re a fuckin’ asshole.’ There’s no bite behind it and luckily Ian takes it that way. 

‘Yeah.’ Ian says, ‘but you always loved me for it.’ 

It’s supposed to land as a joke but Mickey can’t deny the way his stomach drops. He gulps, his heart thumping _hard_ as he allows the word to wash over him. It’s true. It’s always been true, all these years, no matter how much he tried to deny it. Mickey loves Ian, he’s always and he always will love Ian. 

Ian stops, his jaw dropped, gaping as he tries to back track the comment, ‘I-’ 

‘If you say I’m sorry one more time I’m going to punch you in the jaw, you pussy.’ Mickey interrupts, keeping his voice as casual as possible. He squashes down any urge of acknowledging the warm feeling in his chest with the greater need to be inebriated, especially after coming to _that_ realisation, ‘Let’s get so wasted we both fuckin’ hurl.’

Ian shakes his head, almost as if to say _thank god_ that Mickey decided to breeze over his slip up. They’re both exhausted and neither man is ready for _that_ conversation, even if they’re just on the cusp of it and they both know it’s there. 

Even if it’s always been there. 

They walk back into the building, Mickey finally stopping for a piss to gather himself before they enter back into the main reception hall. Food is being handed out and placed on the round tables, smells of all sorts waft around the room. He sees everyone seated and Mickey stops awkwardly, remembering that the tables had a seating plan with names and he’s unsure where to place himself to sit down. 

Ian senses his hesitancy and grabs his upper arm, nudging him back to their table, ‘You’re with me.’ He says simply and Mickey nods, it’s small and shy. He doesn’t know when he became such a pussy, but today’s been _too much_ that he can’t be fucked to deal with it right now. 

They go back to the table they’d been at previously and Mickey slides into the seat next to Ian, avoiding the obvious questioning glares from everyone else seated.

Waiters carrying trays swarm around them, balancing food and wine glasses on both arms. Someone places a plate of sausages and potatoes in front of Mickey, it both smells and looks delicious. His stomach rumbles at the sight and he’s thankful for the momentary breather from the rest of the day. 

‘Wine?’ The young waiter asks him, he’s holding a bottle of what Mickey can only assume is the alcohol he’s referring to. Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever had wine in his life and he’s definitely not going to choose now to try it. 

‘Who’s a guy gotta pay to get a beer around here?’ He says, squashing down the insecurity of being out of his depth. He doesn’t know anything about fucking gay wines. 

‘Uh, there’s, uh…’ The waiter flounders, ‘Sauvignon blanc?’ 

‘Who?’ He asks plainly, his face pulled into a scow. He knows he’s being purposefully obtuse but the way the waiter is staring at him with slightly disgusted curled lip puts him right on the edge. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?, ‘Where the fuck can I find him?’ 

‘The wine?’ 

‘He’ll get his own beer, thanks.’ Ian says, leaning over Mickey towards the waiter. Mickey shoves him lightly back and forces a smile at the waiter. 

‘You’re getting me my fuckin’ beer.’ He grumbles to Ian, tucking in into the meal in front of him. Ian rolls his eyes fondly and scooches his chair backwards, resigning to get up to the bar. Mickey turns, watching Ian walk away towards the bar. 

Fuck, his ass looks good. 

A stagnant silence falls on the table, only broken by the clattering of cutlery and the meal to distract them from forced conversation. Luckily Ian isn’t gone for too long, slipping back into his seat next to him with two beers and Mickey suddenly feels like he can breathe again. He hadn’t even realised he’d been struggling, but apparently he had. He passes Mickey an open beer and clinks the side of his bottle lightly. 

‘Cheers.’ He says softly, and Mickey smiles. He can keep doing this, even if it’s only for the next few hours, pretend like his world hasn’t turned upside down. 

‘One beer, Ian?’ Lip says mid-bite, and Mickey doesn’t like the tone of his voice. 

‘Just the one.’ Ian says, shooting his brother an irritated look. Lip raises his arms up innocently before going back to his meal. 

‘Looking out for you man...thought you guys were going to miss the food.’ Lip says plainly, without bothering to look up at them, his eyes fixed on his plate below.

‘Missin’ a plate of free food? Not likely.’ Mickey snorts, sticking a fork in the sausage on his plate. He isn’t sure who chose this menu, but he ain’t gonna complain. He eats it quickly, savouring the taste of something that isn’t quick ramen or McDonalds take out. 

‘You Milkovichs always were scroungers, weren’t you?’ Lip quips, raising an eyebrow. Ian makes a noise of protest next to him, Mickey puts a hand on his thigh to steady him. 

‘Fuck off.’ Mickey says, shovelling in a mouthful of food. ‘You Gallaghers weren’t any better, don’t you fuckin’ forget that.’

‘He’s not wrong!’ Kev pipes up, his silverware clattering down onto his plate enthusiastically. ‘You bastards were always stealing my toaster, or if not my toaster my WiFi connection, or if not my WiFi connection then my wife!’ He laughs, raising his glass and gesturing towards Vee who’s sitting on a different table with Fiona. Her husband’s seated on her other side, as well as who he assumes is her husband’s parents. It takes a second for it to sink in but something washes over him, it’s weird. He realises now, looking around at everyone seated at the table and who he’s met today, there’s a giant drunk elephant in the room. 

‘Where the fuck is Frank?’ Mickey asks no one in particular, his thoughts blurting themselves out unhelpfully, and he feels Ian freeze up beside him. 

What the fuck?

‘Six feet under my dude.’ Kevin says simply, placing his hands in a prayer position. There’s an awkward beat and Mickey turns in his chair to face Ian. 

‘What?’ 

‘Yeah, he, uh, he overdosed and passed in the street- no one found him for a few days.’ Ian explains, his face held and Mickey watches his eyes meet Lip’s across the table. 

‘Fuck.’ Mickey responds - does he say sorry? He knows it would be a lie considering he couldn’t stand the guy, but he’s not gonna be an asshole. ‘Guys, I-’ 

‘The fucker had it coming.’ Lip says, cutting Mickey off without looking over which is almost a blessing. ‘He was always going to end up that way.’

‘The docs said he had a shit type of all sorts in his system, so he probably went out on the best night of his life.’ Ian says, smiling slightly and waving his hand dismissively, ‘It ain’t sad, it’s fuckin’ Frank.’ 

‘Here! Here!’ Kevin crows, raising his glass to which Ian and Lip respond with their own. 

‘To the bastard getting what he deserves.’ Mickey says quietly, raising his beer bottle to meet the rest of them in the middle.

After that the rest of the meal passes relatively uneventfully, and by the end of it Mickey feels like he’s eaten enough for a week. He finishes off the dessert, taking a big swig of beer before burping loudly. Tami gives him a slightly uncomfortable look - _does she know what family she’s bought into?_

‘Classy, Mick- real fuckin’ gross.’ Ian laughs, giving Mickey’s shoulder a playful shove. Mickey pushes him back, jabbing him below the ribs.

Ian grabs his wrist as it retracts, ‘You ain’t any fuckin’ better, Gallagher.’ Mickey retorts, raising his eyebrows and shaking him off. ‘Do not forget the time you chased me around the house with a _used_ dildo-’ Mickey stops as his breath catches in his throat and he lets the sentence trail off. His stomach clenches. There’s a moment of tense silence between the two of them that takes a second to soften, almost as if they’re _both_ remembering the early days of Ian’s mania, the days when it was still just a thought and not The Thing. Ian looks over at him sadly and Mickey wants to cup his jaw with his hand, but he doesn't. The moment is broken by a tapping of a glass from the other side of the room and the groom stands up, beaming at Fiona. It’s a distraction, at least. 

‘My new wife and I would like to thank you all for joining us today to celebrate our marriage.’ He addresses everyone in the room, his mouth pulled into a wide smile. ‘We wanted to be surrounded by the people that we love and love us- we wanted it to be a celebration of, you guessed it, love!’ 

Mickey cringes, the guy seems like a complete cheese but if Fiona’s happy then he guesses it can’t be too bad - he hopes the sex is at least good. The guy rattles on about how happy he is to be married to someone like Fiona and _blah, blah, blah_ \- Mickey zones out listening to the guy drone on. He knows he probably should make a little more effort to seem interested, but hey, Ian knew what he was signing up for when he invited him here. 

‘I didn’t know love until I found you.’ He hears the groom say to Fiona and his fists clench tightly in his lap. He wonders if his nails will draw blood. 

_'You love him?'_ Svetlana had asked him, all those years ago. 

He did then. He still does now. 

The memory washes over him like a wave of ice water as he realises he doesn’t think he ever really knew love until Ian came along, and he’s not sure why it comes as a surprise. Sure, there were moments as a kid when his mum held him close and whispered lovingly in his ears, but she still skipped out on them when she could. 

He wasn’t good enough for her. He was definitely not good enough for his father. 

Was he good enough for Ian? He sure hasn’t felt like it for the last decade. 

‘You make me feel like I can be free to be who I am supposed to be.’ 

Mickey snorts and has to bite back his tongue, cause pretty he’s sure this white straight guy hasn’t had to hide himself for even a second in his life. What he fuck does he know about being free? What does he know about literally fighting for his life, his freedom, his joy? Has he ever been pistol whipped because of who he loves?

He feels Ian tense up next to him, his hand slipping onto his knee. It sends a spark right up his thigh and burying into his chest. He knows exactly what Ian is thinking about because he’s thinking about it too. 

_Because you’re not free._

_What you and I have makes me free._

And it did, it really did, but that wasn’t enough. 

‘We can’t wait to spend the rest of our life together.’ The groom says and there's a collective 'aw' around the room, he ignores it. 

Mickey can feel Ian’s eyes on him, and in turn, can feel Lip looking at Ian. He allows himself to look over at Ian and his eyes are sad, they’re so sad. God, how did they have to miss out on so much? His eyes sting, and Ian nods, his eyes are wet too. _Fuck_ , this is a lot. 

They never had the chance as kids to think about the future as a _them_ , most of the time it was rushed hand jobs and belts quickly unbuckled. Somewhere when he was 17 years old or so, he turned into a complete fucking pussy for the boy - _man_ , beside him, and as it turns out, Mickey never grew out of it.

The groom finishes his speech and the crowd cheers, but Mickey misses the entire ending because he can’t take his eyes off of Ian, who hasn’t looked away from him once. 

‘I-’ Ian begins, his voice low, but Mickey places a hesitant hand over the one on his knee. He gives it a squeeze before retracting it, scooting back into his seat away from Ian’s gaze. It’s a silent _‘later’_ , and he can see Ian gratefully nod in his peripheral vision. They both silently agree that now is not the time. There’s a bit of a hustle and bustle over at the main table and a new guy stands up who starts a speech about how much he loves the groom. 

He has to bite back an audible groan because God, weddings are exhaustingly boring. If he ever gets married, whenever the fuck it may be, it will _not_ be a slog fest. 

‘So you guys approve of this guy?’ He whispers, in an attempt to distract himself from his own racing thoughts, leaning over towards Lip, who raises an eyebrow in response. 

‘Yeah, Greg’s great.’ Ian answers, nodding at Lip. ‘He founded some sort of start up at some point, it took off.’ 

‘He’s got a lotta money.’ Lip says, ‘They bought a house.’ 

‘You guys got rid of that old shithole?’ Mickey whistles, sitting back impressed. 

‘We still gotta have somewhere to live, asswipe.’ Lip quips, rolling his eyes. 

‘Why should I care about where you live?’ Mickey throws back coolly, narrowing his eyes almost as if to challenge the older Gallagher brother. He knows right now that this is just playful banter, but it could turn ugly relatively quickly and he needs to have the upper hand if it does. 

‘Mick-’ Ian puts a grounding hand on Mickey’s shoulder. 

‘I mean surely you care Mickey, you freeloaded off of our house for a while there, didn’t you?’ Lip says, and someone from another table leans over and hisses at them to be quiet. 

‘Fuck off.’ Mickey bites, his jaw clenching tightly. 

‘Lip, easy.’ Ian says, giving his brother a _shut the fuck up or I will make you_ look. Lip backs down, moving fully back into his seat. Freddie makes a noise of discomfort from the high chair he’s in next to Tami, and Lip leaps up to assist her with their son. There’s an applause around them, and Mickey assumes the guy must’ve finished his speech, he hopes to fucking God they’re all done now. 

Turns out he’s shit out of luck because Fiona stands this time, and someone passes her a microphone. 

‘My husband and I would like to thank you all for being here with us today, thanks for celebrating and dragging your asses out to New York. There’s some people here that I didn’t think I’d ever see cross Illinois state lines so really, that’s an achievement in itself.’ She says, and the crowd laughs, Veronica lets out a little cheer at her side. ‘Shout out to my family over there!’ She points over at their table and everyone turns to look at them, Mickey shivers. 

‘I love my husband, _blah, blah, blah_ \- enough with the boring crap, let’s party!’ She cheers, raising up a glass of sparkling wine before downing it in one. Clearly, you can take the girl out of the South Side but you can’t take the South Side outta the girl. Mickey finds himself being pulled up out of his chair by an enthusiastic Ian and swept over to the dance floor meters away, his beer left mercilessly behind. Fiona and her husband walk forward and the crowd moves out to make space. A slow song begins, it’s a pretty melody that he thinks he recognises from some movie. They sway together, eyes only on one another. It would be cute, romantic even, if Mickey didn’t feel like his heart was going fly up his throat and out of his mouth. Almost as if he heard this thought, Ian shifts closer on Mickey’s right side, placing a delicate hand on the small of his back. Mickey physically shivers, but Ian doesn’t remove his touch, if anything, he pulls him in slightly closer. This is too much, this is too much, this is too much. The song ends and everybody claps - why the fuck does everyone clap so much at weddings? - and a high upbeat number starts to play.

‘Okay, laaaadies!’ Fiona calls, spinning out from her husband’s arms as someone leans over to her and hands her her bouquet, ‘and men, we ain’t discriminating here!’ she adds, pointedly looking over at Ian who pretends to tip a hat in response. ‘Let’s go!’ 

There’s an enthusiastic squeal from the crowd which makes Mickey cringe in towards Ian, blocking his view, which later he’ll blame on the next few moments happening so quickly he can’t keep up. 

She turns around and throws the bouquet high into the air, it goes over her head and soars over the rest of the crowd. Mickey watches as it flies closer to him until it practically smacks him in the face, only saved by his hands snapping instinctively up to catch it before his brain realises what he’s done. He drops the flowers straight down onto the floor, his hands stinging like they’ve been burnt. 

Fuck. 

Everyone turns to look at him. Had the music not been blasting then they would’ve been able to hear a pin drop with the deafening awkwardness settling in. There’s so many eyes on him. It reminds him of that evening in The Alibi, that day, the _I just want everybody here to know i-_

He’s snapped back by some nondescript girl jumping down and scooping the flowers up from his feet, she cheers and runs off into the crowd. Everyone follows suit, barely throwing Mickey another glance as they all start to get ready to dance around him. He’s frozen. The music picks up tempo again but Mickey cannot move. Ian is looking at him from his peripheral vision, there’s something questioning in his eye and Mickey doesn’t like it one bit. It’s a look full of loss, and pain and love and Mickey cannot take his eyes away. People are moving around them, it’s fast paced and loud but neither one of them have moved an inch. 

They never discussed marriage ever as kids, it was never ever on the cards, not until Ian spat the laughable idea out to him when they broke up. After what his dad put him through, Mickey thought there would never be a moment he would want to be married again, but in that moment, stuck there on the dance floor with flowers at his feet, he can’t help but wonder. The thought makes his chest hurt and he can’t decide if he’s about to hurl or drop to his knees right in front of Ian. 

Ian shifts towards him, turning so they’d be face to face. 

‘I guess you’re next-’ Ian starts, and Mickey can’t even appreciate him trying to smooth over the awkwardness with a joke because he needs some air. 

‘I need a smoke.’ He says quickly, ducking out before Ian can open his mouth in response. 

He shoulders his way through the crowd and practically sprints through the threshold out into the hall. He feels like he’s drowning and he needs to get away from the suffocating feeling of _you don’t get to have this_ . He doesn’t get to have the things he wants, that’s just the way the universe was shaped. He’s sure _Mickey Milkovich will always be destined to want things from afar_ must be written somewhere in the stars. He wasn’t allowed to be himself as a kid, always fighting and scrounging, picking up the scraps. He ran after his father, needing both his affection and the protection of being A Milkovich, which ultimately snuffed out any possibility of freedom in himself. 

Until Ian. 

Until Ian grabbed him by the hand and pulled him kicking and screaming out into the world of sucking it up and accepting that this is what it feels like to hand over your heart to someone. To bury yourself in someone’s everything and hope the seams don’t rip and the glass doesn’t break. 

He leans back against the cool wall, there’s sweat gathering at the nape of his neck and he lets himself breathe. All he feels like he’s done today is run away and breathe, and he can’t believe it because this is what Ian Gallagher turns him into. He’s a hot mess of sweat, and hurt and a lot of love. 

9 years and he’s still a mess for this boy, he’d feel completely pathetic if it didn’t make his heart ache. 

‘Mickey.’ He hears Ian say, he realises he must’ve followed him out into the hall, but Mickey doesn’t open his eyes. ‘Look at me.’ 

He’s weak. He’s so weak. 

A slower number starts up in the reception, it’s some Ed Sheeran number that was playing on repeat all of last summer and Mickey can’t believe he actually can remember that (he guesses he’s more gay than he pegged himself for). He hears Ian step closer, so close he can smell him. Ian’s hands trail up hesitantly, dusting his fingertips with an offering. An offering of more, an offering of _let’s just fucking do this_. Mickey opens his eyes, and nods. 

They move together slowly, Ian’s arms coming up around Mickey’s neck to pull him in closer. He pulls Mickey off the wall and into the middle of the lone hallway. The Ed Sheeran song still plays through the open door, it’s slow and delicate. They sway, shifting their weight from side to side in time to the music. It’s easy for Mickey to get lost in the sensation, Ian’s arms wrapped around him tightly, the safety he feels and the comfort. Miles and miles away from the panic he felt only moments before. They never got to have this before, they never had their honeymoon phase of adolescent love and casual affection. He can’t stop thinking about how everything between them had always been fiery and intense, blood spilled and hearts broken. Even after he’d finally grown balls and come out, they weren’t able to relish in his new found freedom, since they were thrown head first into Ian’s diagnosis and all that entailed. 

‘I-’ Ian starts, shifting his forehead to rest against Mickey’s. They haven’t been this close in years and Mickey’s heart thumps wildly in his chest. He doesn’t know where he starts and where Ian begins. This is all he’s wanted, all he’s craved, every single day since they said goodbye, even when he told himself he was fine. Even after talking himself into the idea that he was over Ian, better off without Ian, that Ian was better off without him. 

Even after running away to New York to escape Chicago which he told himself was about not wanting people to know him as a criminal thug forever but he always knew, deep down, that it was about Ian. 

His hand comes up to Ian’s neck, trailing delicately through the short hair. Their lips are so close, all it would take is an inch, less than, and Mickey can’t handle it. 

They’ve never been allowed to have this. So he gives themselves permission and lets them have it. 

He closes the gap between them and Ian makes a pleasant noise of surprise before he responds immediately, opening his mouth invitingly and letting Mickey slip his tongue in deftly. They skip the closed mouthed, chaste polite kisses and jump straight to the wet and messy _can’t get enough of each other._

And they can’t.

Ian moans into Mickey’s open mouth which sends blood straight down to his crotch and he has to get closer. He wraps his arm around Ian’s waist just as Ian reaches down and grabs a handful of his ass, pulling him in impossibly close. It’s intimate, and sweaty and so fucking hot. 

‘Fuck.’ Mickey grunts, pulling back and catching a ragged breath. It’s only for a moment before he licks his lips and crashes them back together again, because he can’t stay away for one second more. He needs Ian’s lips on him, he needs his hands, his chest and his ass. They drink each other in like they’ve found water for the first time in months after a drought, like they’re being fed after weeks of starvation. It’s desperate and open and reciprocated. 

‘Fuck, can we-’ Ian moans, cutting off the thought by circling his tongue around the back of Mickey’s teeth making his toes curl. 

‘Fuck me.’ Mickey breathes into Ian’s hot mouth. It’s like they’re kids again, it’s quick and all hands. There’s nothing else on his mind, he needs this, he needs this, he needs this. 

‘We can’t leave yet.’ Ian says, the heat in his voice goes straight down to Mickey’s cock, ‘But _fuck-_ I want to.’

‘Let’s just go- they won’t fuckin’ notice us.’ Mickey mutters into Ian’s sweaty neck, before locking his mouth on the curve and sucking. 

‘Jesus.’ Ian pants, pulling away and before Mickey throw back a snarky comment about the Holy Lord not being present, Ian grabs him by the wrist and drags him down the hall. He shoves him through the door of the bathroom and spins to lock it behind them. He’s back on Mickey almost instantly, pressing him up against the cubicle door. 

‘Right here?’ Mickey quips, before Ian quickly undoes his belt buckle and shoves his hand down Mickey’s underwear. _‘Oh fuck.’_

His hands fumble with his belt, shaking as they push the waistband of pants down over his ass. Ian drops down straight to his knees, taking Mickey into his mouth and going down on him enthusiastically. It’s been years and yet Ian knows him still so well, knows every touch that drives him insane. Fuck, it feels good, it’s everything Mickey has fantasised about in the last few years but even better, because it’s real. It’s real and Ian’s mouth is actually on his dick right now going to fucking town, it’s not just his hand or some stranger. His hand comes to rest on the top of Ian’s head, slowly guiding his movements back and forth. 

‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Mickey breathes, his head falling back against the wall. His fingers curl in the ginger hair, pulling his head in closer. Ian moans around his dick, the vibrations causing Mickey’s hips to buck forward excitedly, but it doesn’t throw Ian off and he keeps going. ‘I’m close.’ Mickey says, tugging on Ian’s hair to tell him to move off but he doesn’t budge. He can feel it building up in his groin, and if he’s not careful he’s going to come right down Ian’s throat. ‘Ian-’ 

Ian gruffs in protest, shoving his hands underneath Mickey’s ass to take him in even closer, and Mickey takes it as permission. He comes blissfully, and Ian swallows every single drop. It’s everything he remembers from before and he feels electric. Mickey grabs Ian’s shirt pulling him back up to his height before shoving his tongue into his mouth, his lips swollen and red. 

‘Your turn?’ He pulls back, his hands going down to Ian’s buckle. 

‘No need.’ Ian says, a low blush rising on his cheeks which Mickey can’t help but find ironic considering he literally just had his dick in his mouth. ‘Already jizzed in my pants like a fuckin’ teenager.’ Mickey laughs and their foreheads rest together, both of them breathing deeply in their relieved state. 

Mickey can’t help himself, he pushes forward and takes and takes and takes. 

They clean each other up slowly, stopping to press warm kisses against open skin, cheeks, lips and hands. It’s much slower than before, their frantic fiery need satisfied momentarily. They give each other a once over in the bathroom to make sure they don’t look too obvious before making their way back into the reception where the party is in full swing. Mickey can’t help but remember the last time they hooked up at a wedding, it should hurt and it does, he knows it does, but right now all he can focus on is Ian next to him. He feels high, his stomach bubbling, he feels like he could float out of the building and into the stratosphere, not a single fuck to give in the world. He’s not running this time, neither one of them is running - they should talk, he knows they should talk but now is not the time. 

Lip sees them and raises a knowing eyebrow. ‘Really?’ 

‘Bite me.’ Mickey grunts, though unable to hold back the temptation to smirk. 

‘Looks like my brother already did.’ Lip says simply, and Mickey lurches forward but Ian slips an arm around his bicep, holding him in place. Lip rolls his eyes, ‘Chill, dude- everyone hooks up at weddings.’ 

He rolls his eyes at the older Gallagher brother, God, being around these shits again was exhausting. 

‘Can we fuckin’ ditch this thing already?’ Mickey asks Ian, pointedly ignoring Lip. ‘Get the fuck out of here?’ 

Ian looks at Lip, then over to Fiona dancing in the middle of the room, then back to Mickey. There’s a brief, terrifying moment where Mickey thinks he’s going to say no, but it’s interrupted with Ian pulling a sly grin.

‘Fuck it.’ Ian nods, grabbing Mickey by the wrist. 

‘Great family time, bro!’ Lip calls after them, and both men flip him off as they leave the dance floor. ‘Use a rubber!’ 

They quickly exit the building, shrugging on their coats before Ian steps out and hails a cab. They slide in and Ian barks out an address that Mickey doesn’t quite catch before they’re back on each other again. Ian’s hand sliding up his thigh as he presses slow, wanting kisses up Mickey’s neck. The ride seems to take for fucking ever but at least the driver has the decency to pointedly look the other way. By the time they pull up to the sidewalk, both men are painfully hard and throbbing in their pants. 

‘Let’s go, Gallagher.’ Mickey groans as Ian takes his sweet time handing the driver some cash. 

‘Patience is a virtue.’ Ian quips, wiggling his eyebrows. 

‘I’ll show you fuckin’ virtue.’ Mickey says, grabbing Ian by the hip, his fingers digging into the bone. 

‘Oh will you?’ Ian says, pulling Mickey forward even closer. They kiss quickly, open mouthed and wet. Ian pulls away and drags him into the building up and a few flights of stairs. They stumble as they go, unable to contain the mutual _want_ thumping through their veins. 

His back hits the door and Ian reaches around him to slip the key into the door, stopping momentarily to drag Mickey’s lips back to his. He gets it open and he shoves Mickey inside by his hips, pressing him up against the wall as soon as they’re across the threshold. 

‘Fuck me, fuck.’ Mickey bites at Ian’s bottom lip, bringing it between his teeth. He can’t get enough, it’s been years and he wants more. ‘There a bed in this joint or are we going to go at it right here?’

‘You’d like that wouldn’t you.’ Ian says, leaning forward and licking right up his neck to underneath his ear. He knows it’s a spot that makes Mickey’s knees absolutely buckle. ‘Right here.’ His breath comes out in hot puffs in his ear. 

‘Fuck you.’ Mickey says, his hands coming down to unbuckle Ian’s belt and shove his dress pants down to the floor. They both shuck off their suit jackets and they fall into a pile onto the floor. 

Ian grabs his upper arm and drags him into a room at the end of the hallway, he shoves him down onto the bed. Mickey grabs the back of his neck, pulling him closer, pressing their bodies right up against one another. His fingers find the buttons on Ian’s dress shirt and he starts unbuttoning them frantically, needing to feel his skin under his fingers. 

‘I’ve missed this, fuck- I’ve missed you Mickey.’ Ian whispers, his hands coming up to help Mickey out of his shirt. ‘Need this, need this _right_ now.’ 

‘Get on with it then.’ Mickey quips, there’s no bite behind it, only the utter lust he feels coursing through him. Ian smirks, leaning over to the side table and coming back with a condom. Mickey squashes the thoughts of Ian with other people and pushes it to the back of his mind, it’s not like he’s been celibate for years. All he can focus on this moment and being with Ian, _finally_ , after everything. Ian preps him quickly, it’s fast and clumsy but neither man particularly cares. They’ve waited for this, they’ve craved for this, and now they finally get to have this. 

Ian pushes into him slowly, and Mickey thinks he finally might understand what people are talking about when they use the term ‘religious experience’. 

They fuck for long time, Mickey doesn’t know if it’s hours or minutes, or days, they could’ve been going at it for a year straight and it wouldn’t be enough. They come together, it’s almost comical how perfect the timing is, both of them moaning out into the dark bedroom. 

‘Fuck.’ Mickey hisses as Ian pulls out of him slowly, and he lets out a little whine at the loss. He’s so fucking sensitive, his veins feel like they’re buzzing with electricity, but he wishes he could stay full forever. Ian pulls him down onto the bed with him, his arms wrapping around his shoulders bringing his face into the crook of his neck. They don’t move, the sweat between their naked bodies sticky and warm. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Ian breathes, and it’s so quiet that Mickey almost misses it, barely a whisper. ‘I know, you won’t be able to forgive me, but it’s true.’ 

Mickey’s on the edge, he’s so close, he could jump. He doesn’t respond, he doesn’t know how to respond, but he grips tighter. He knows he’s in too deep, that he forgives too easily, but he can’t change that. He’s helpless. Ian inches closer to him, their bodies flush against one another. 

His heart thumps in his chest but after a while he hears Ian’s breathing level out, succumbing to a peaceful sleep. He wants to bury himself here, dig deep into the ground and allow himself to stay here forever. 

He knows he should have some pride and leave, stand up for himself more and not give in too easily. He doesn’t know how to not give when it comes to Ian, it’s all he wants to do. His breath hitches, and he swallows. He doesn’t know where they’re going to be in the morning, he doesn’t know what they’re going to do. The future is big, scary and full of questions. He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing time would stop still and give his brain a chance to catch up with his heart. 

Fuck, he sounds like a child. A lovesick, absolutely helpless child. He bites back an exasperated laugh. He’s exhausted. There’s a man in his arms, a man who holds so much power over him, a man who cradles his entire world in his hands. Should he allow him to continue to have that power? That hold? He brings up a hand to rub at his eyes, and Ian makes a quiet noise at the shift of movement, it’s barely audible but it’s there. Mickey wants to hear that noise for the rest of his life. 

He doesn’t know what to do, but he knows what he wants to do. 

He pulls Ian closer, as close as two humans can possibly get, and lets himself have this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been updating every sunday for the last few weeks, this is one of the last chapters i had fully written but i'm hoping that i can continue on that schedule. also, yes I killed frank, sorry (but not sorry!). i hope you're all staying safe and keeping indoors, it's a scary time for all of us but by being mindful towards others, we can make it through! my inbox on tumblr, here and on twitter is ALWAYS open if you need a distraction, please reach out if things are getting too much! 
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are the things that keep me motivated and moving forward, so please feedback if you can! <3 
> 
> [follow me on twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian) and [on tumblr](https://https://oforamuse.tumblr.com/)
> 
> thank you for reading and see you soon :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was gonna upload this last night but i got laid off from work yesterday so had a few glasses of wine instead and couldn't edit it properly, so sorry about the lateness. it's a long one though, so i'm hoping that makes up for it. 
> 
> enjoy!

Mickey wakes with a jolt and his eyes take a second to adjust to the morning light before slowly he realises there is someone pressed up against his back. 

Oh yeah, _that_ happened. 

Ian’s nose is tucked into Mickey’s neck, his arm draped over his waist and his crotch flush against his ass. 

Fuck.

Ian’s unrelenting morning wood presses up against him, right below the curve of his ass, and he wants to do nothing more than turn around and give him something to wake up to. He considers it for a second, but his insistent and full bladder has other plans. Mickey sighs and begrudgingly slips out from under Ian’s arm, stopping to take a second to look back at the sleeping man next to him, his chest aching. He’s so relaxed and at ease as he sleeps, his features soft and gentle, and he fights the urge to run his hand through the ginger hair, to touch and take. He holds his breath as he stares, his gaze tracing the outline of Ian’s body under the sheet, his sculpted lines settled gently in slumber. 

Something clicks back into place.

 _God_ , Mickey loves him. He loves, loves, loves him. 

It hits him like a slab of concrete, and yet in some ways, it doesn’t hit him at all. It’s always been the case, ever since he was a kid, his love for Ian. Ever since he finally let his guard down, let the wire fall, let Ian crash through and root himself in deep. 

Mickey knows he would lay himself down on the line right now for him, he knows it should be scary, he knows he should be more pissed at himself for being so weak than he is - but he can’t help it. Ian is the tide he’s been waiting to crash back into his shore and he’s riding in the surf. 

He wanders down the hall, practically limping to alleviate his nagging bladder but something stops him in his path before he can make it to the bathroom - a framed photo hanging on the wall catches his eye. He recognises it instantly as a picture of Fiona, she looks younger, more like the days when he knew her back then but he can't place the timeline exactly. There’s another one hanging parallel next to it of her and her (now) husband, their heads thrown back in mid-laugh. He throws a glance around his surroundings in the morning light, realising slowly that they’re not actually in a hotel room like he originally thought. 

Is this Fiona’s new place? 

He shuffles into the bathroom, and as he pisses he gives the room a scan, noting the _three_ toothbrushes in the cup by the sink. _Interesting_. Moving back out into the hall easily - now that he doesn’t have to focus on not pissing himself, he gives the place a better look. There’s pictures of the Gallagher clan all over the walls and on the sides, along with a bunch of other white people Mickey has never seen in his life. Must be the in-laws, he thinks. 

This is weird, this is so weird. 

He should leave, shouldn’t he? 

Was this a one time thing? Was Ian _expecting_ him to slip out in the morning? 

He looks over at the front door, he could leave, he could run and go back to everything his life has become. _Fuck_ , he wonders, is this all it will be with Ian? If it is, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle it. Everything in him wants to hand his heart back to that sleeping man, back to the place it’s always belonged, but he’s hesitant. Rightfully so, he believes. 

Fuck, he could do with a smoke. 

He walks tentatively back into the bedroom, noticing now in the light there’s a dresser along the right wall with a bunch of makeup and perfume piled on top. This really must be Fiona’s place, then. Ian’s spread out like a starfish in Mickey’s absence, it’s cute and makes Mickey’s heart pound. He remembers the countless nights of squeezing in next to Ian on his tiny bed at the Gallagher house, barely enough space for either one of them to turn without ending up on the floor. There were many mornings he’d wake up with Ian’s arms around him being the only thing that stopped him falling in the night, his trusting body knowing he was safe in his grip. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of him as he watches Ian’s chest rise and fall. This continues for a moment or so until Ian shifts, almost like he can sense Mickey hanging in the doorway, he turns restlessly. He stretches for a second, his back broad and tight before throwing out a hand beside him, only for him to shoot upright when he comes up empty. His eyes, frantic and wide, take a second to settle down once he finally realises Mickey is still there, staring.

‘You’re still here.’ He says, his shoulders dropping in visible relief. Mickey bites down a snarky, instinctual reply, shifting against the door uncomfortably. 

‘Do ya want me to go?’ Mickey asks instead and it’s sour in his mouth but he hates the fact he has to ask it. He doesn’t want to be anywhere he’s not wanted, not when it comes to Ian. He can’t deal with it. Ian’s eyes widen again in panic. 

‘ _No!_ No, no, I want you here- I don’t want you to-’ Ian says frantically, his arms failing out as he tries to gesture along with his rambling. He stops and collects himself, ‘I want you to stay.’ 

Mickey gulps, his fingers twitching with anxiety at his side. 

‘Alright, alright, there’s no need to get your panties all twisted.’ Mickey says casually, holding his voice steady in an attempt to squash the quiet joy coursing through him. Ian frowns, so he rolls his eyes and sits down on the edge of the bed tentatively. ‘I ain’t going anywhere unless you’re kickin’ my ass out.’ He says gently, shifting his tone at Ian’s uncertainty. His fingers fiddle with the comforter as he continues, ‘...and even then, good luck with trying to get me to leave.’ 

Ian smiles, it’s small and warm, closing his eyes as he breathes out a sigh of relief.

‘I mean it, I don’t want you to go.’ He says more firmly than before, catching and maintaining eye contact. It’s intense. 

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Mickey says, and he can’t help the way his breath hitches in his throat. 

‘I want you here.’ Ian affirms, staring into Mickey’s eyes, he’s serious and open. 

‘Ian…’ Mickey breathes, and Ian inches forward, pulling his tattooed hands into his lap. Ian leans forward and Mickey lets him, their noses bumping as he breathes against his lips. 

‘You, me, here.’ 

Mickey pushes forward and meets him with a firm, closed mouth kiss. Ian makes a move to deepen it but Mickey pulls back reluctantly, words spilling out when they break. 

‘How do you do it?’ Mickey breathes, ‘I was so angry at you, for so many fucking years-’ 

‘I’m _sorry-’_

‘Let me finish.’ He looks at him pointedly, their mutual gaze so intense they could both drown in it, he takes a deep breath to ground himself before continuing, ‘You’re under my fuckin’ skin. You always have been.’ 

It feels like he’s finally allowed to break free after all these years of determinedly shoving all thoughts of Ian down, everything he’s held back for so long cascades out, pouring onto the bed between them. Ian pushes forward, his hand coming up to Mickey’s neck to pull his lips to his. Mickey goes along with the kiss, open mouthed and shifting his body so they’re facing each other properly and moving himself up into Ian’s lap. 

‘What am I supposed to do?’ He mumbles against Ian’s lips, before pressing forward for more. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ 

He’s supposed to do this. 

They move quickly, basking in the fact there’s no clothing to get rid of considering neither one of them bothered to redress before passing out last night. Their naked bodies slide together, and it’s all grabby hands and panting kisses, sweat on sweat, skin on skin. They come pathetically quickly, rutting into each other’s crotches. There’s no mutual move to clean up; instead Mickey choses to curl across Ian’s chest as they catch their breath, burying his nose closely into his armpit. He’s come, he’s warm, he’s safe. 

He’s close to nodding back off when a thought occurs to him quickly. 

_Wait_. 

‘Are we fucking in Fiona’s bed?’ Mickey asks, his voice slightly muffled by the angle he’s lying. Ian’s hand freezes mid-stroke through his hair before he hums, confirming his theory, and Mickey can feel the vibrations all the way through his chest. 

‘She’s going to kill me.’ He finally says, his other hand coming up to rub at his eyes. ‘Worth it though.’ 

‘My ass is worth being murdered by Fiona.’ Mickey says, ruining a perfectly tender moment. He couldn’t help it, the bait was too good and things felt too serious. Ian flicks the top of his ear.

‘Shut the fuck up.’ Ian says softly, there’s no bite behind it at all. His fingers rub gently over the spot he’d just flicked, soothing. ‘Even if it’s true.’ 

Mickey sighs happily, pressing a warm, instinctive kiss to Ian’s ribs. 

Yeah, it’s worth it. 

‘Why are we at Fiona’s place?’ He asks curiously, shifting his head slightly to rest on Ian’s chest. ‘You didn’t want a hotel?’ 

Ian shuffles slightly, and sighs, ‘I was staying here for the wedding, didn’t really have the cash to shell out for a hotel room.’ Mickey hums, he gets it. ‘You got a job?’ Ian says after a moment. 

‘Body guarding at some club over in Astoria, it’s nothing fancy- pays the bills.’ Mickey swallows, ‘Keeps me out of trouble.’ 

Ian nods, ‘I’m an EMT.’ He says after a second, and Mickey whistles, genuinely impressed. The image of Ian in uniform, all official, sends blood shooting down to his crotch. 

He shifts on Ian’s chest so he can get a good look at him properly, ‘You out here saving lives and shit?’ 

‘Not exactly, but yeah.’ Ian smiles, it’s all teeth. ‘I love it.’ 

‘That’s hot.’ Mickey quips, unable to stop himself at leaning up to kiss Ian the side of his head before settling back down onto his chest. ‘Bet you look good in the uniform too.’ Ian lets out a light laugh, his hand lightly stroking up Mickey’s arm. 

‘Don’t look too bad.’ Ian says, ‘I got into it a few years ago.’ 

_This is nice_ , Mickey thinks, because even though he’d happily be fucking right now - and he _really_ would - him and Ian never used to get the chance to just talk. To catch up or chat so casually. It dawns on him that they’re actually in the middle of pillow talk right now, which instead warms him in a way he didn’t expect. He’s used to shying away from anything remotely corny, keeping those vulnerabilities at arm's length. Except it’s Ian and he can never shy away from Ian. 

Ian hesitates before continuing, the pause evident in his voice, ‘I was, uh, dating this guy and he got me into it’ He says, and Mickey holds his breath for a second before letting it puff out slowly. There’s a stiff beat. ‘We’re not, not anymore though.’ 

‘Relax.’ Mickey says quietly, shoving his discomfort down as he shifts on Ian’s chest. He doesn’t ever want to think about Ian with anyone else, but he’s not about to open that can of worms, not right now. ‘I get it.’ 

Even though he doesn’t, not really. 

‘We broke up but I stuck with it, cause I’m good at it you know?’ Ian says and Mickey can hear the pride in his voice, it makes him smile, previous discomfort forgotten. ‘I love the feeling I get when I help people, that’s the real shit.’ 

He knows one of the roughest things they had to deal with when they were kids was Ian losing out on the army - well, him ruining his chances with the army because of the shit that happened during his first manic episode. He finds it comforting to hear that Ian has found something he enjoys, something he wakes up for everyday, something that he’s proud of. He wishes he could say the same for himself, but being a bodyguard really isn’t his life goal, though truthfully he doesn’t know what else is. Surviving, mainly, keeping his head above the water. 

Something dark and ugly washes over him as he listens to Ian’s voice, it sits low in his gut and bubbles. 

It’s something that has nagged on his brain for the last decade, the source of many sleepless nights in prison with his heart too heavy to ignore. It creeps in his thoughts, following him around like a shadow he can’t shake off and he’s never looked it fully on in the face to confront, but it’s always been there. 

Ian keeps rambling on about his EMT job and he knows he should be listening and paying attention but Mickey’s brain is elsewhere entirely, it’s lost and loud and it won’t shut up. 

He had he just stood up to his father, had he had the balls to buckle down and accept his fate, perhaps they wouldn’t have gone through all that shit. All of this, everything they were forced to endure, could’ve been avoided. 

He remembers the day his dad sat him down at the table, gun in hand and Svetlana sitting opposite him. A pregnancy test sat on the table, a positive pregnancy test as he would soon find out, the tension high and palpable. He remembers his dad’s knowing grin as he stared at him across the table, explaining how him and _The Russian_ were going to get hitched, her being pregnant and all. _They gotta do it properly_ , he’d said. _He was so happy to be a grandfather_ , _so thanks for that kid, good job. He knew Mickey always had it in him. He was a true Milkovich. A real man_. 

Suddenly, Mickey can’t breathe, the memory overwhelming him, shutting him down and swallowing him up. 

‘You good?’ Ian asks, his voice concerned. It pulls him back and it’s only now Mickey realises his hands are visibly shaking on top of Ian’s chest. ‘Mickey?’ His breath comes out in short puffs as he tries to bring it under control, he feels sick. There’s the tell tale sting of his eyes as they start to water, and he brings up a hand to scrub at them defiantly, this isn’t going to happen, not right now. 

‘I-’ Mickey chokes, it’s so unlike him but he thinks he might actually fall over the edge and break this time. 

‘What’s going on?’ Ian whispers, pulling them both up so he can properly look at him in the eyes. Mickey’s head hangs heavily, his breathing shallow, ‘Is this about my ex? Cause thats-’ 

‘It’s not about your stupid ex.’ Mickey says painfully, his throat stinging as everything feels like it’s closing in on him and he wants to scream. ‘I don’t give a shit, I just…’

He can’t get the words out and Ian moves up onto his knees, facing Mickey head on, his hand comes up to cup his cheek, ‘What is it?’ 

Mickey shakes his head, grappling with the mess inside of him, his eyes screwed tightly and staying silent. 

Minutes pass as they sit there, Ian stroking his cheek patiently. ‘Mickey?’ He says, voice tentative and quiet, throwing him a life raft. 

He catches it. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Mickey whispers. It’s so uncharacteristically like him that it tastes foreign in his mouth, it’s bitter and heavy. He holds Ian’s gaze, eyes locked, willing him to see how genuine he’s being. How he’s never felt so open and truthful in his life. 

‘What?’ Ian says, his face drawn in confusion, ‘What are you talking about?’ 

‘When we were kids.’ Mickey mutters, his eyes shifting to avoid Ian’s questioning gaze. ‘I never said sorry.’ 

_‘What?_ ’ Ian says, exhaling in disbelief, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. He takes a moment to simply stare at Mickey, his fingers stroking delicately at his chin. He bites his lip, looking like he’s ready to open his mouth to respond but something shifts in him, Mickey’s finally found his momentum and he’s ploughing through. He needs to get this out and he needs to get it out now otherwise the seams will rip and he’ll burst. 

‘It was my fuckin’ fault, all of it.’ He wipes his eyes, they’re wet and sad. ‘I didn’t have to get married to Svetlana, I could’ve said no...I could’ve I dunno, didn’t have to be such a _pussy-_ ’ He rants, and he hates himself, hates himself, hates himself. It’s like a dam has broken free and he can’t stop the self loathing from pouring out and drowning them both. He continues, ‘I mean, my dad was a fuckin’ nazi prick, but I could’ve done something, killed him or some _shit-’_

‘Mickey, no- your dad would’ve killed you.’ Ian protests, his voice breaking. Mickey feels the phantom pistol whip against his face, it stings. ‘He would’ve literally killed you.’ 

He would’ve. Maybe he should’ve. 

‘You were fuckin’ right when we were kids, I was a pussy. I was afraid of fuckin’ everything.’ He spits, his hands balling up into fists and wishing he could punch something, anything - his father, himself. 

‘Mick, that’s unfair, I was unfair to you then.’ Ian says, his hands coming up to either side of Mickey’s face. Mickey’s eyes dart everywhere except his. ‘Look at me, you asshole.’ and Mickey sighs, resigning as they make eye contact. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you to come out the way you did-’ 

‘I’m glad you did, I don’t- I didn’t regret it.’ Mickey interrupts, and his heart thumps heavily in his chest. He can’t quite believe it hasn’t broken his bones and fallen through his rib cage yet. ‘I was a fuckin’ dick, I _hurt_ you.’ 

_You love me and you’re gay. Swallow. The bitter taste of liquor. Breaking glass. The sound of his foot hitting Ian’s face. Ian’s cries. Fuck. Make you feel like a man?_

‘No one should’ve had to come out the way you did-’ 

‘I didn’t want to lose you, I had only just got you back, got you _safe-’_ He lurches forward, allowing himself to fall into the crook of Ian’s neck, Ian’s arms coming up to cradle him. ‘I’m sorry.’ He whispers again, ‘I should’ve said it years ago.’ He needs to breathe. He can’t breathe. He’s drowning. He kicks to the surface, but he doesn’t break through. 

‘Fuck, Mickey.’ Ian chokes, his voice tight as he struggles. ‘I hurt you too, I don’t get off scot free, I really, _really_ don’t.’ He pulls him in even closer, as if he wouldn’t settle until their skin merges and they become one, his hands gripping tightly. ‘We were kids, dumb fucking kids.’ 

It hangs there as they sit for a moment, everything feeling so horribly heavy and muted. 

‘You never should’ve messed around with me.’ Mickey says, finally, and it’s quiet but audible. Almost as if he’s broken the surface, gasping for air. ‘Back in the beginning…’ 

‘Oh yeah, and shoulda kept fucking Kash?’ Ian asks, incredulously. His tone is an attempt at being playful and light, a stark contrast to moments before, but Mickey’s fists clench in his lap. 

He makes a grunt of protest, ‘He was a pedo.’ 

‘What about Jimmy’s dad, the guy you beat up outside the club that one time?’ Ian says, it’s his dumb attempt at lightening the mood, Mickey gets it, but he can’t stop the sick feeling in his mouth when he thinks about all the old guys that took advantage of a much younger Ian. He’d still kick the shit out of all of them if he could. 

‘Stop talking about all the old guys you’ve fucked.’ Mickey snaps and it comes out harsher than he intended but he just can’t deal with it right now. Not when his head is spinning, not when he feels like he’s been turned upside down and shaken out. ‘Don’t wanna know about the grey fuckin’ hairs stuck you’ve had in your teeth.’ 

He feels Ian sigh exasperatedly against him, though not rising to Mickey’s bait. Thankfully. 

‘I don’t regret us, or the shit we went through.’ Ian says seriously, going back to the topic at hand. Mickey feels his Adam's apple bobbing against his forehead as he swallows, ‘I mean, I wish your psychotic dad didn’t catch us and force you to marry Svetlana, _that_ we could’ve done without...but I don’t regret us.’ He says again, his voice breaking as he finishes. There’s a pause, and Mickey hears him sniff. ‘Only that I fucked us up.’ 

‘Ian-’ Mickey tries, because they’ve been through this, but Ian shushes him and continues. ‘You were sick.’ 

It’s not an excuse, it’s never an excuse, but Mickey doesn’t want Ian carrying the brunt of it all on his own. 

‘That doesn’t change the shit I pulled or the shit I did, I was so fucked up but that doesn’t change it- I was in denial about my illness for so long, so fucking long, and I ruined us.’ Ian says sadly, it’s wet and grim, but he’s determined and Mickey lets him continue. ‘I flushed my meds, took Yev...I fucked other people.’ His stomach drops heavily, sinking towards the earth. It was a fact he knew already but it still fucking sucks to think about. ‘Then I broke up with you, like an idiot...I didn’t even come and see you.’ He chokes, and Mickey can feel his breath hitch. ‘Even once I was stable again.’

‘We were both fucking idiots, both of us.’ Mickey presses, he’s been hurting for so long, he doesn’t want to do it anymore. He’s so bored of _this_ hurting him. ‘I would go to prison for you now- today, if they came in here and arrested me again, I would do it.’ 

‘Shut up.’ Ian says dismissively, his voice hard and Mickey can feel him shake his head. ‘Don’t say that.’ 

‘No, I would.’ Mickey says quietly, shifting his chin up so he can place a soft kiss on Ian’s neck. It’s tender and foreign, but it helps his chest lighten. The tension shifts and they sit there for a moment, Ian’s fingers stroking gently though Mickey’s hair, both of men mutually worn out and emotionally exhausted. It’s not fixed, it’s not finished, but it’s a start. 

‘Do you ever think back in the day, this is where we’d be?’ Mickey says, and it comes out as a shaky mumble into the curve of Ian’s neck. 

_Did you ever see us here? Older and adult. Out and free? Did you ever see us talking? Discussing our feelings rather than just fucking each other’s brains out and waiting for the next pin to drop? For the bricks to crumble and fall?_

‘You letting me hold you in my arms as we both argue over who takes the blame for all the fucked up shit in our lives?’ Ian murmurs, squeezing his arms around Mickey to pull him in closer - he’s practically sitting in Ian’s lap at this point. He doesn’t mind and Ian doesn’t look like he does either. ‘Nah, don’t think I could’ve predicted that one.’ 

Ian doesn’t see it but Mickey rolls his eyes as he shifts, nuzzling his head into the curve of Ian’s neck. 

Time passes slowly and they move back down to lying fully on the bed, both men appreciating the breather from the heaviness of the conversation topic. They lie there comfortably for a second, Mickey splayed out on his chest but something nags at him and falls out before he can catch it. 

‘You thought about me though, right?’ Mickey asks, it’s quiet and self conscious, barely audible as it slips through his lips. It’s everything Mickey fears and more, knowing Ian's world just kept spinning and no one except him really cared that he wasn’t part of it anymore. 

Mickey’s world didn’t keep spinning without Ian, it slowed and stuttered along, like an engine missing an important piece but somehow still managing to hold itself together. He’s finally, _finally_ , feeling all the cogs fall back in place. 

‘All the time.’ Ian whispers firmly, pressing a kiss to his hair line, ‘Mick, all the fuckin’ time.’ 

They stay there for what feels to Mickey like hours, Ian’s fingers softly moving through Mickey’s hair. It’s gentle, drawn out and peaceful, both men relishing in the calm before the storm when they both know they have to continue living in the real world. 

For now though, they’re content.

They’ve never been allowed to be content. 

It only takes another minute or so before the moment is broken by Mickey’s stomach rumbling furiously, declaring that they’ve had enough emotional outpouring for one day. 

‘Hungry?’ Ian quips, his hand coming to rest on top of Mickey’s. 

‘For you maybe.’ Mickey mumbles, shifting impossibly closer to Ian’s side. His stomach grumbles again, this time louder than before. 

‘Let’s go big guy.’ Ian says, shaking Mickey off as he moves to sit up, who groans out in protest. ‘I don’t think Mandy would forgive me if I let you starve.’ 

‘She couldn’t give a shit.’ Mickey says gruffly. He doesn’t need to move, in fact, moving sounds like the worst idea in the world right now. He’d happily stay, pressed up against Ian’s side, until the end of time. 

‘I’d give a shit if you starved.’ Ian rolls his eyes, before hooking us arms underneath Mickey’s armpits and practically dragging him off the bed. 

‘Alright, alright I’ll bite.’ Mickey says, shaking him off once they finally get to their feet. Ian throws him a pair of underwear and they slowly pad out into the kitchen once they’re not completely stark naked. It’s a pity, Mickey thinks, he’d be happy to watch Ian walk unclothed all day.

Ian starts opening up the cupboards, moving with the knowledge of where things are usually kept - it seems as if he knows the kitchen well. Mickey leans against the breakfast bar, staring at his muscles moving in his back as he searches. He bites his lip. Does he really _need_ to eat? 

‘I can feel you staring at me, you creep.’ Ian says without turning around, and Mickey feels the blush rise up his neck. 

‘Fuck off.’ Mickey says, embarrassed at his leering being caught. It’s the vulnerable moments like this, the simple act of getting caught admiring another man, that still catch him off guard. 

‘So they’re all out of everything… there’s a good diner around the block if you wanna go there?’ Ian sighs, turning around and leaning against the counter to face him. 

‘You asking me on a date, Gallagher?’ Mickey quips, raising his eyebrows. 

‘Fuck off.’ Ian says, now he’s the one blushing self consciously. 

‘Yeah- you’re asking me on a sit down, let’s have _brunch_ post-fucking date.’ Mickey grins, unable to squash down the need to poke at him a little longer. 

‘Fuck you, I want pancakes- you want pancakes, let’s go get some fucking pancakes.’ Ian rambles, his arms coming exasperatedly down at his side. 

‘A pancake date.’ 

‘I will kill you.’ 

‘Ay, ay- keep your hair on, I’ll go on your fuckin’ date.’ Mickey yelps, as Ian launches a spatula at him which bounces off of his shoulder and onto the floor. ‘You ain’t off to a good start, don’t know if there’s a second one in the pipeline.’ 

‘Shut the _fuck_ up.’ Ian groans, ‘You’re so goddamn annoying.’ He moves off the counter and shoves Mickey playfully back towards the bedroom, ‘I’ve got some clothes you can borrow- unless you wanna go get breakfast in our tuxes? All fancy.’ Mickey throws him a _fuck no_ look and Ian takes that as permission, slipping back out of the room. He comes back quickly with a backpack and takes out a few pairs of jeans and a couple of shirts. ‘Your tiny ass is gonna drown in my shit.’ 

Mickey can’t even bite back a response because he knows it’s true, instead he just throws him the middle finger and grabs a pair of jeans. 

‘What time is it anyway?’ He yawns once he’s fully dressed, and he rolls his eyes because Ian was right, the jeans are baggy on him. 

‘I’ll check.’ Ian replies, moving out into the hall where they’d left their tux jackets, ‘Where’s my phone- _shit_.’ 

‘You good?’ He calls, steadying the concern in his voice. 

‘I think we left our phones at the reception- _shit_ and my wallet too.’ Ian groans as he comes back into the room. ‘Fuck knows how I paid for our cab last night.’ 

‘Shit.’ Mickey hisses, ‘The fuck you wanna do?’ 

‘Dunno, guess we’re gonna have to run by the venue?’ Ian says, his head falling back against the door frame. 

‘Dine and dash?’ Mickey suggests, a smile playing on his lips. He’s joking, well, half joking, mainly because he’s actually really fucking hungry. 

‘Fuck off, we are avoiding all ways you might get locked up again.’ Ian shuts down, he points at him, ‘No criminal activities.’ Mickey raises his arms up innocently.

Despite Ian’s earlier comment, they jump the turnstiles at the subway station and ride slowly back uptown to the venue. They stand the entire time close to a pole, close and intimate, swaying along with the car’s movement along the track. It pulls to a stop at Canal St, and they exit the car, trudging up the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. They walk slowly along the street, not holding hands but practically pressed up against one another. It’s weird and couple-y and unlike them but Mickey can’t help and think about how they never did this back in Chicago, how they never could. They never got the chance to decide if they wanted to be cheesy and cute or not, it wasn’t ever an option for them. 

Now it can be. 

When they arrive at the venue, Lip’s outside having a smoke - _no_ , Mickey clarifies for himself, a vape (Who the fuck smokes vapes?). He looks exhausted, his eyes hooded. 

‘Oh hey.’ Ian greets once they catch up to him, leaning him for a clap on the shoulder. Lip acknowledges Mickey with a raise of an eyebrow, ‘What you doing here?’ 

‘Could ask you the same thing.’ Lip says, his gaze distant as he exhales a cloud of vapour out onto the sidewalk. Mickey hates those things, it smells sickly sweet and sticks in the back of his throat. ‘Tami left some of Fred’s things behind by accident, I was just stopping by to pick ‘em up.’ 

‘We left our phones.’ Ian provides and Mickey nods along with him, already ready to end this conversation. 

‘You boys look like you had a fun night.’ Lip quips, turning to face them fully. He catches Mickey’s eye and Mickey can’t help but smirk. It’s nice to have the upperhand for once. 

‘We sure did.’ Mickey says plainly, but Lip doesn’t blink at the comment, his face still. ‘My ass still hurts.’ 

Ian snorts, ‘Shut up.’ He says, swatting him on the head, ‘I’m gonna run inside and check, okay?’ 

Mickey nods and Ian gives his shoulder a small squeeze before legging it into the building. It should ground him, but it doesn’t. 

‘So you- uh, you back for good now?’ Lip asks, staring out into the street with the air of disinterest the guy always seems to carry. ‘Not that I particularly care, I’d just like to know.’ 

‘You got a problem, Gallagher?’ Mickey replies, suppressing the need to rise to the bait. If there’s one thing he doesn’t give a shit about, it’s what Lip Gallagher thinks of him, he’d rather just clock the dude. 

‘Nah man, no problem. I’d just like to know if I’m gonna have to be the one to pick _my brother_ up after this- you know, things always get a little crazy when you’re around.’ Lip says, bringing the vape pen up to his lips and inhaling, then exhaling through his nose. ‘What he doesn’t need is more crazy shit.’ 

Mickey’s fists clench instinctively where he’s got them buried deep in his pockets. Don’t rise to it, don’t fucking rise to it. Don’t give him the satisfaction. 

‘The fuck is that supposed to mean?’ He says, going to great lengths to keep his voice steady. They’ve never seen eye to eye on many things, both too stubborn to allow things to pass, but the one thing they’ve always agreed on is Ian’s wellbeing. He watches as Lip swallows deeply, shifting to look at him. 

‘It means he’s had a fucking hard time recently and he doesn’t need anything to fuck his progress up- especially not your shit.’ Lip bites, ‘I don’t give a fuck if you’re together or not, go get fucking married for Christ’s sake, just don’t get him involved in your murder criminal _shit-’_

‘Fuck you, you know that’s fuckin' _bullshit_.’ Mickey snaps, his resolve beginning to crumble as he can feel the anger rising, the bricks beginning to fall. ‘You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.’ 

‘Will you chill for a fucking second.’ Lip says, his hand coming out defensively in front of him. Mickey steps back, fighting the urge to bite back. 

‘He’s been off his meds recently, it was bad- it was really fuckin’ bad.’ He’s looking at Mickey seriously now, and Mickey tenses, staring at Lip as he speaks. ‘If you’re in this, you’ve gotta be in it. Fully.’ Lip says civilly, ending it there as he nudges his head in the direction behind Mickey. 

The atmosphere breaks and Ian pops up next to them almost instantly, coming in close to Mickey’s side.

He jumps back slightly, it’s unintentional but it’s an obvious movement that clearly throws Ian off for a second. 

Mickey hates that he has to consider this, that it’s even a thought crossing his mind, it’s horrible and he hates himself for it. He can’t help himself, though, but somewhere inside of him is the insecure kid he’s always been for these last 9 years. 

Is Ian manic? Right now? Is this why this is happening again, is this why he asked him to come to the _wedding-_

‘Got ‘em!’ He says, waving Mickey’s phone in front of his face, unknowingly interrupting his unravelling thoughts. He snatches it out of his hand gruffly and Ian looks slightly taken aback, frowning. ‘Alright grumpy pants, let’s go find those pancakes… you coming Lip?’ 

Mickey rolls his eyes, the asshole will probably say yes just to fuck with _him-_

‘Nah, I think I’ll sit this one out.’ He shakes his head, looking Mickey in the eye knowingly as he brings the vape pen up to his lips. 

Mickey breathes a visible sigh of relief, and Ian shrugs, slapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder as a goodbye. 

As they turn to leave, Lip pipes up again, ‘Mickey, think about what I said- okay?’ 

Mickey fights the urge to flip him off and nods, turning to stomp down the sidewalk. Ian picks up his pace to follow him, shuffling closely behind. 

They’re barely around the block when Ian brings it up. 

‘What did Lip say to you?’ Ian asks, grabbing him by the shoulder and twisting him to face him. Mickey shakes him off, ignoring the question and brings a shaking hand to rub at his eyes. 

‘Doesn’t matter.’ He grunts, stopping on the street and searching around. ‘Fuck, where is a diner near here?’ He hates coming Downtown, it’s too high-risey and busy, plus he’s not a local around here so he doesn’t have anywhere to suggest. 

He really, really doesn’t want to get into this with Ian right now. He just wants some fucking pancakes, perhaps four cups of black coffee and a smoke. 

‘There’s one a few blocks over, it’s by the bridge, we gotta go east- but really, what did Lip say to you?’ Ian presses, blocking Mickey’s path as he tries to start up again. 

‘Can we just get some fuckin’ food then we can talk, or whatever.’ Mickey sighs, and Ian deflates, stepping back. 

‘Okay.’ He says, his tone uncertain but and they continue to walk in silence over towards the east, Ian taking lead. 

Mickey’s heart thumps along with his feet hitting the pavement, almost to the same rhythm. He’s ansty and just wants to know the what the fuck is going on between the two of them. Is he going to be left high and dry again? Ian implied that he wants them to be an _us_ again but there’s barbed wire around Mickey’s heart threatening to dig in with every thump. He doesn’t know if he can trust Ian at this point, it hurts, but it’s true. He wants to trust him, he wants to trust him so badly. 

They end up in a small place a block over from the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s slightly cramped but not too loud and it doesn’t seem like the tourists have discovered it yet which is a plus. They rattle off their orders to a bored looking waitress and Mickey downs two cups of coffee before it’s brought up again. 

‘What did Lip say to you?’ Ian repeats, his hands coming to rest on the top of the table, fingers splayed outwards. 

‘What happened with you?’ Mickey counters, ignoring Ian’s question and going straight for the nagging fear in his head. Ian visibly tenses, and Mickey wishes he had it in him to reach over and sooth his fraught muscles, pull him back down to earth. He doesn’t. 

‘What?’ Ian says, and it comes out as an almost whisper through clenched teeth. 

‘Lip said you’ve been off your meds.’ Mickey says plainly, holding tightly to keep his voice from betraying any sort of insecurity. He can’t do a repeat of last time, he can’t. ‘You told me you were good- you said you had it all sorted out.’ 

‘I do-’ Ian tries, his fingers curling in against the table. He stops and closes his eyes. 

‘Ian.’ Mickey presses, his name heavy in his mouth as it comes out, ‘Are you on your meds?’ 

There’s a pause as the waitress brings over their meals and awkwardly places the plates in front of them. It’s stifling. Neither man feels like eating, Mickey thinks he could vomit. 

‘Please don’t lie to me.’ He finally breathes, it’s light and airy. He doesn’t want this to be an issue, he can’t have this be an issue. The corner of Ian’s mouth twitches, he’s about to say something. He stops, holding his breath. Mickey reaches forward and places a hand on top of where Ian’s sit, an inch away from his unused silverware. It’s an olive branch. A heavy sigh of relief falls through Ian’s lips when their hands touch, Mickey thinks he can feel a slight shake. 

‘Yeah, I was off my meds.’ Ian says finally, his eyes coming up to catch and hold onto Mickey’s. They’re serious and sad at his confession, he’s ashamed. Mickey exhales a breath he didn’t realise he was holding and it comes out disjointed through his teeth. He lets his shoulders drop, allowing the tension to fall away. Their fingers intertwine. 

‘What happened?’ Mickey asks, his voice soft and concerned. Ian’s breath hitches and Mickey can feel the stutter all the way down his arm. He’s overwhelmed with the sudden need to take the other man into his arms, and hold him tight. 

Ian squeezes his eyes tight before continuing, ‘Monica died.’ He says, his voice broken and strained. ‘It fucked me up, it fucked me up so badly.’ 

_Fuck_ , Mickey can’t say anything because he knows how much Monica meant to Ian, even if he didn’t like it, even if the rest of the family didn’t like it, it was still there. 

‘I was put on suspension at my work, they told me to take some months off.’ Ian continues, bringing his arms back to wrap around himself, hugging himself closely. 

Their pancakes lay untouched between them, as if they’ve made a mutual decision that this is more important than their ravenous hunger - which is it. 

‘And I came here.’

A pin drops. 

_What did he just say?_

He needs to hear it again, he needs to make sure, because it can’t be what he just heard. 

‘What did you just say?’ Mickey whispers, everything in him on the edge of suddenly turning ice cold. 

‘...I came here.’ Ian says, his voice thin and Mickey doesn’t understand what he’s talking about. He came here? _Here_? New York? Mickey doesn’t say anything, his mouth gaping but unable to force out actual words.

‘I’ve been here…’ Ian explains, sensing Mickey’s unease and rallying through. He’s nervous, he’s so nervous but Mickey doesn’t know what to do. ‘About 4 months now...give or take a few days.’ 

His jaw drops further, ‘4 months?’ He says, voice shaky with disbelief. 

Ian’s been here for 4 months? 4 months? 4 months? It goes around and around and around his head. They’ve been _so_ close for 4 months. 

‘Why did you come here?’ He breathes, his fists clenching tightly. 

‘Fiona.’ Ian affirms, and it hangs there, he nods. ‘She moved out here with Greg and I've been crashing on her couch...I needed her.’

Mickey should’ve figured, there would’ve been no way that Ian knew he was there anyway, but he still has to push down the small part of him that hurts, the small part of him that was hoping… 

‘And you.’ 

There’s a beat as he digests his words and then it hits him like a thousand bricks, all piling up on top of each other and sending him sinking into the ground. There’s a rushing sound in his ears, the room spins. 

_‘What?’_

‘Mickey…’ Ian starts, his hands coming forward hesitantly. Mickey pulls himself back, pressing himself into the chair as much as possible. He needs the space, he can’t breathe. 

‘What does that mean?’ He swallows, ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ 

‘I…’ Ian stops, his eyes closing as he takes a deep steadying breath and Mickey might scream. ‘I knew you were here.’ 

‘No you didn’t.’ Mickey says stiffly, his teeth gritted. There was no way Ian knew he was here, not when they hadn’t spoken for years, not when Mickey was sure that he didn’t _care_ where he was all that time. He was okay with that, he’d come to peace with that, knowing they were states and miles apart. 

‘Yeah... Mick, I did.’ Ian says, his eyes shifting down to the table. He fiddles with his fork distractedly and Mickey wants to hit it out of his fingers. Mickey holds his face, his lips pressed together so tightly he feels he might draw blood. Ian looks up at him, his long eyelashes getting caught in the light and it makes his heart ache. Mickey waits, ‘I’ve been talking to Mandy, uh, for… around a year now? Maybe, a year and a half?’ 

He doesn’t quite understand what he’s hearing as he watches Ian’s lips move, but blood rushes in his ears, drowning everything else out. He knows what he thinks he just heard, that Ian and his sister had been in contact, that they’ve been speaking, but nothing his brain isn’t putting two and two together. It almost feels like it can’t physically process that thought, it’s so far from the realm of possibility that there is no _way_ -

‘What?’ Mickey swallows, his throat thick with the creeping rise of panic. ‘No you weren’t, you haven’t.’ 

‘Mickey, _please_.’ Ian says, his voice uncertain and thin as he begs. ‘I’ve known you were here all along, Mandy told me months ago.’ 

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut because this _can’t_ be what he’s hearing right now, this can’t be what’s happening, this isn’t it. He feels his hands begin to shake and shoves them between his thighs, at least that’s something he can control. 

‘What the _fuck_ does that mean?’ He whispers, the words feeling like bile in his mouth. ‘Did you, did you make us bump into each other? Was that planned?’ 

He doesn’t know if he wants it to be planned, or if he wanted it to be pure chance, or fate, or some bullshit, but he just needs to know. 

‘No! No, that was a mistake- well, not a _mistake_ , but you know what I mean that was a pure coincidence.’ Ian presses, ‘It was a coincidence.’ 

His words cut into Mickey like a blunt knife. A mistake. A coincidence. 

‘So, let me get this straight.’ He says, his voice rough, the walls of his throat feeling like sandpaper as the words choke out. Ian looks at him, careful eyed and timid, giving him the space to talk. ‘You knew I was here all along… you’ve been talkin’ to my sister and then, we just happen to bump into each other.’ 

‘Yeah.’ Ian breathes, swallowing hesitantly. ‘That’s it.’ 

Ian’s confession hangs there, heavy, weighted and dull. They stare at each other, Mickey taking in the way Ian’s chin is wobbling with tension, he pushes the need to cup it down and shakes his head. He takes a deep breath, his head reeling. There’s a sharp nagging feeling in his gut as something dark occurs to him, it drags him down and he feels he might vomit. 

Mickey swallows, he needs to hear this from Ian straight, ‘You knew I was here?’

Ian nods, and Mickey steadies himself, the ground feeling like it may crumble out below. 

‘So you didn’t want to see me again?’ He says plainly, the words stinging as they fall out. His heart feels heavy and fragile, cracks beginning to form. 

Ian’s expression turns pained, but he doesn’t open his mouth. He sits there, eyes sad, and silent. That’s the confirmation Mickey needed, that’s all he needed to hear to know that Ian _never_ wanted him again, that all of this, the last few hours, was down to a chance. 

Ian’s known where he was for over a _year_ and he didn’t reach out to him once, he didn’t _want_ them to see each other again. He had that power, the power to have them come together and reconnect after years, and yet he never used it. Didn’t even send him a fucking _thank you for going to prison for 6 years for me_ card, nothing. 

The dull ache in his stomach is suddenly flooded with rage, anger seething through his veins.

‘You knew I was here and you didn’t want to find me, so all this bullshit… all this, I miss you bullshit, was just crap?’ He spits, scraping his chair back, needing to get away, needing to _run_. 

‘No, that’s not it-’ Ian presses, his voice frantic and tight. He grabs at Mickey’s wrist in an attempt to keep him in place but the touch burns Mickey’s skin, and he rips his arm away. ‘I didn’t know what to do, Mick, I was all over the place-’ 

‘Get the fuck off me.’ Mickey says, and Ian’s face collapses but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care about anything except getting the fuck out of there right now. His eyes sting and he brings up a quick hand to wipe at them, shaking. ‘Just…I should’ve fuckin’ known.’ He laughs sadly, and he should’ve, he really should’ve. 

‘Mickey.’ Ian says, his eyes equally as wet. His face is so fucking sad and Mickey wants to take it into his hands and cradle it forever, but he can’t. He can’t because everything hurts and he can’t breathe. ‘That isn’t true.'

‘What’s not true?’ He says, his voice severe and loud, and Ian flinches, hurt. Other patrons of the diner have perked up, looking over their menus at the scene. Mickey wants to tell them all to fuck off and mind their own business, but he can’t get his thoughts straight. Everything is reeling, tipping and crumbling. ‘I went to prison for you, 6 fuckin’ years of my life for you, and you didn’t think I’d want to hear from you? You _knew_ where I was and not even a fuckin’ thank you.’ 

‘Mickey.’ Ian says again, and Mickey never wants to hear his name said ever again because everything right now is making him feel like shit. His hands shake as he shoves them into his pocket, pulling out a couple of bills and throwing them down onto the table. 

‘You got your night of fun, Gallagher.’ Mickey spits, his heart broken and disappointed. He’s so fucking disappointed. Disappointed in Ian, in himself, in everything. He takes a deep breath, his chest heavy and looks Ian dead in the eye. ‘You can go back to your perfect life now.’ 

Then he’s gone, out of the diner, and down the block. He walks for hours, battling his way through the fog in his brain, everything dark and damp. He bumps into tourists shouldering their way through the sidewalk, but he doesn’t bark out his usual scathing reply. Everything feels dim, and switched off, like he doesn’t care. He doesn’t know how long it takes him to get back to his apartment on foot but it’s nearing the evening by the time he trudges up the four flights of stairs. His stomach aches, and he knows realistically it’s because he hasn’t eaten all day but blames it all on Ian. Ian and his stupid fucking face, his stupid fucking endearing and wonderful face. 

It takes until he’s facedown on his bed, fully clothed and exhausted before he allows the tears to fall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what? i couldn't let them be TOO happy...
> 
> all will be resolved in good time but for now, thank you for reading! i have about a quarter of the next chapter written but as i no longer have to work, hopefully it'll be up on time next weekend. thanks for all the wonderful feedback on the last chapter and the two other fics i posted this week, you guys are great.
> 
> comment and kudos if you enjoyed it - feedback keeps me motivated and nothing makes me happier than getting a comment notification! 
> 
> [follow me on twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian) and [on tumblr](https://https://oforamuse.tumblr.com/) i'm now accepting prompts! 
> 
> see you soon!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, i hope you're all staying safe and indoors. 
> 
> enjoy!

Mickey brings the lit cigarette up to his lips and breathes it in, allowing the thick, musky smoke to fill his lungs. He holds it there for a second, before exhaling and flicking the ashes down to the ground and stomping it out. He didn’t sleep last night, tossing and turning restlessly, there wasn’t a moment his brain switched off and relaxed, and he’s definitely feeling it now. He managed to pull himself up for his shift around seven that evening, his eyes swollen and his stomach reeling. He doesn’t remember getting ready, only how his hands shook as he stripped off and the realisation he was still wearing the clothes that Ian had leant him the day earlier set in. He shoved them to the bottom of his laundry basket, after balling them up and talking himself out of burning them in the bathtub. He doesn’t remember the subway ride over to Astoria, the W chugging slowly along the elevated tracks, he doesn’t remember clocking in. He’s exhausted, exhausted by the lack of rest, exhausted by the ache in his chest, exhausted by the kids who keep trying to get in the fucking club. 

He could definitely do without this right now. 

‘You’re not getting in.’ He grunts to a very clearly underaged girl and her group friends, ‘Go back to your homework or get a better fake.’ He pockets the ID and they call out in disgruntled protest, but he doesn’t give them another look as he points them out of line. ‘Beat it.’ 

‘You’re an asshole!’ One of them shouts as they turn and they go down the block. Mickey shakes his head - fine, he might be an asshole, but they must be fucking freezing with the lack of clothing they’re wearing. It ain’t about feminism, it’s just stupid to freeze to death in mid-February New York temperatures over the need to show off some skin and he doesn’t understand it at all. No one wants to fuck someone if they've got hypothermia, what's the point?

The winters aren’t as bad as he’s used to in Chicago, but it’s still a cold and brutal night in Astoria, the wind blowing off the East River and not doing anyone any favours. Mickey brings his hands up to his mouth and blows hot air on his fingers, giving himself something to do other than think _about-_

No. He’s not doing that. 

He’s been doing that for the last few days. He’s not doing it now. 

‘Damn Chicago, being a bit harsh tonight, don’t ya think?’ Roy says, his thick eyebrows drawn together in quiet amusement. Mickey rolls his eyes, but Roy has a point, they’re the fourth group of people he’s turned away in the last hour. He doesn’t care, they should get some better fucking fake IDs. ‘The club’s gotta make some sort of bank.’ 

He doesn’t care. He’s finding it difficult to give a shit about anything, really. It’s hard to give a shit when it feels like someone has hollowed you out and filled you with wet cement. There’s a clap on his shoulder, Roy’s hand coming down hard. He flinches, but shakes it out in an attempt to style it off. 

Roy’s been on the same bodyguard shifts as him since he started and he’s probably one of the only people he’d consider a friend out here. They didn’t click immediately when they met, 6 or so months ago, Mickey’s need to be the most intimidating person in the room when he’s nervous outweighing his need to make a good first impression, but they’re okay now. He’s short, shorter than Mickey, but makes up for it with his thick Brooklyn accent and his overly muscled arms. They don’t chat much, but he isn’t trouble and sometimes they’ll go out for a beer, so it works for him. 

‘These fuckin’ kids.’ Mickey says, already patting his pockets for another cigarette, his hands needing something to do other than clench. ‘Don’t they have something better to do then fuckin’ freeze to death?’ 

‘Give ‘em a break, as if you were up to anything better when you were their age.’ Roy says, his eyebrows raised knowingly. Mickey told him a few stories about his miscreant years a few months back, over cheap beer and dollar pizza, accidentally letting slip over one too many that he’d wound up in prison for 6 years. He didn’t mention _why_ he’d been in prison - he wouldn’t even know where to begin to explain _that_ fucked up situation without coming off as a hard edged convict. Nonetheless, Roy had been impressed with the descriptions of orange jumpsuits and chain link fences, listening intently as he chewed on his cheese slice. Ever since then, he’d dropped it into conversation regularly, hoping, Mickey assumes, for him to spill more about his time incarcerated. Roy may look intimidating to the average person, but Mickey knows the guy wouldn’t know how to pick a lock, let alone beat someone up or steal a car. Prison life fascinates him, but Mickey doesn’t really know what to do with the weird and uncommon attention so he usually dismisses his attempts at prying. 

‘Wasn’t tryin’ to get into clubs, that’s for sure.’ Mickey says, pulling out the empty cigarette box from his pocket and throwing it into a nearby trash can. Fuck, he needs more smokes, he’d only bought that packet this morning but he’s been chain smoking like a chimney. His hands shake slightly so he shoves them into his pockets for some release. 

‘Yeah, just stealing cars.’ Roy quips, nodding as he waves people into the club without giving them much of a look. The music thumps through the open door, the sidewalk vibrating with every bass drop and low beat. It makes Mickey’s head pound. ‘Robbing stores and what not.’ 

‘Alright, fuck off.’ He gruffs back, his face pulled into an irritated scowl. He’s not wrong, though. He wasted so much time as a kid on _bullshit_ , force fed the rhetoric from his father that people in the world are inherently selfish and so he might as well take advantage of it. The first time Terry had made him rob a store he was 6, still eager to please his father with wide eyes and unable to think for himself, he’d shoved money handed to him in a bag whilst his father held up a register at gunpoint. He hadn’t even given Mickey a mask, though wearing one himself, leaving his 6 year old vulnerable and obvious - but Mickey hadn’t known that. He’d felt invincible, powerful, his insides gleaming at the pride in his father’s eyes as they left the store successful. It’s the moments like that, being handed his first gun before age 10, forced on a drug run aged 12, that littered his childhood and decided his future. They set him on the path of being a fuck up before he even had the chance to create his own map and decide himself. 

‘What’s got you so riled up- d’ya need a break? I’ll cover for you.’ Roy rolls his eyes, and raises his hands innocently at Mickey’s expression. Mickey’s shoulders drop slightly, a small amount of his tension draining, and he drags a hand over his face. He’s being an asshole and he knows it. 

‘Nah man, it’s just shit.’ He mutters, keeping his voice steady. He throws Roy what he hopes is a grateful look before waving someone through. ‘Stupid shit.’ 

‘Ay, just let me know if you gotta talk shit out.’ Roy continues, looking at him pointedly. 

Mickey raises his eyebrows, his face twisted towards Roy’s in disbelief, ‘Since when do we talk shit out?’ He says, unimpressed. 

‘My girl’s got me talkin’ more, tellin’ me we’ve got to work on our stuff.’ Roy explains, a proud expression on his features. ‘It’s nice, man.’ 

‘You’re such a pussy.’ Mickey says, his eyes glazing over the ID in his hand. He grunts at the girl and nods at her to go through. She’s definitely under 21. 

Roy kisses his teeth, ‘Ay, none of that.’ He says, waving his hand out dismissively. ‘She’s the real fuckin’ deal.’ 

‘Whatever, man.’ Mickey says, hoping to end the conversation there because he sure as hell isn’t about to open up on the sidewalk. He’s only on shift for the next few hours and then he gets to go home and go the fuck back to sleep. He shifts his gaze back to the club’s line and his eyes catch a flash of red hair, his stomach drops and everything in Mickey goes cold. 

He swallows, his hands frozen as he watches them laugh with their friends. 

It’s not Ian. 

He breathes out, but he doesn’t know if he’s relieved or pissed off, and shakes his head to bring himself back to earth. Only 3 more hours to go which could easily be 3 years given the way time is dragging, slow and sluggish. They stand there in silence as they wave people in and out of the club, Mickey’s eyes glazing over the IDs shoved in his face, his hands hurting in the cold. 

‘That tux fit you, yeah?’ Roy says, breaking the silence after 20 minutes or so, the question so innocent yet it feels like a stab to the gut. He’d completely forgotten about the tux he’d borrowed, left in a pile on the floor of Fiona’s bedroom when they couldn’t wait, when they were ripping each _others-_

 _‘Chicago_.’ 

The nickname digs and makes Mickey cringe, his eyes squeezing together tightly as he brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. It had popped up about a month or so of them working together, he doesn’t even know if he told Roy he was from Chicago, he must’ve done, but it stuck. He usually doesn’t mind it but tonight it feels like a dart has been thrown and he’s the centre of the bullseye, it pricks and aches. A hand comes down on his shoulder, steadying and grounding, and he shifts his gaze. 

‘What?’ He mutters, keeping his voice as controlled as possible and ignoring the way his throat _burns_. Roy eyes him expectantly, his eyebrows drawn together by an expression that’s unclear, but questioning. ‘Yeah, yeah it was great.’ 

‘Good… you alright?’ Roy says, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. Other than Ian, it’s foreign to Mickey to have someone who wants to pry, wants to care, wants to understand. He never had friends growing up, his brother’s didn’t give a shit and neither did Mandy. It’s unchartered territory and he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t know how to like it. ‘Just whack it in the dry cleaners or somethin’ and I’ll come by and pick up soon, yeah?’ 

He nods, avoiding looking up and he breathes slowly, steadying the unsettled rise in his chest. Roy isn’t seeing that tux again, not if Mickey can help it, he doesn’t know how he’ll deal with it but he will. He’s not exactly about to turn around and say he left it at his ex’s sister’s house after they hooked up for the first time in years. He isn’t about to explain how for the first time since being out of prison, things aligned, things felt certain and solid. He’s not going to tell Roy how no matter how many times he told himself that Chicago was behind him, that Ian didn’t cross his mind, he was always lying. Hope had burned, a low and almost snuffed out flame, but constantly for years, that Ian may want him again. That Ian would be the one to take those steps, put himself out there, make that gesture, after everything. 

But he was wrong, apparently, and the world needed to remind him that Mickey Milkovich doesn’t get to hope for things. 

The rest of the shift passes in a dull blur of underaged kids and coked up businessmen, Mickey drifting through the hours disconnected and distant. By the time 4am rolls around and the club starts to shut up, the idea of going back home stalls and overwhelms him. He delays himself by dropping into the bodega on the corner to buy more smokes, and loiters on the sidewalk outside afterwards, a lit cigarette in his mouth with the smoke warming his lungs as he inhales.

He thinks about Ian, his hair, his body, his smile, his _fucking_ smell. He’s got a lock on him, tight like a vice and clamped down on his heart without a chance for release. He wishes he could breathe in everything he feels for him like the smoke he’s inhaling and exhale it back out into the atmosphere, freeing him once and for all, but he can’t. His feelings for Ian are immovable, etched into the fabric of Mickey’s very being. There’s no escape, no matter how hard he tries. Even if he’s angry, even if he’s confused, the only thing that’s clear as day is the way he feels about him. 

A few exhales and a moment later, Roy jogs up to him with a backpack slung over one shoulder, pulling Mickey back, his chest tight. 

‘Have a good night, _C-Town_.’ Roy says, raising a hand as he turns to leave. Mickey rolls his eyes at the dude’s incessant need to give him a nickname, and his words fall out before he can stop them. 

The sudden need to _talk_ overwhelms him and takes control, ‘Roy.’ 

‘Yeah?’ 

It’s unfamiliar and scary but he feels his resolve crumbling, brick by brick falling to the ground, leaving him horribly open and vulnerable. 

Mickey avoids his eyes, allowing them to drift over to the stoop opposite, ‘You serious about that… talkin’ shit out business?’ 

‘Serious as shit, man.’ Roy grins, before changing his expression inquisitively, ‘You takin’ me up on that offer?’ 

_‘Fuck_.’ Mickey swears, low and under his breath. He shakes his head, suddenly horribly aware that it’s 4am and the city will be back up and running soon. He throws a glance over to the subway station on the corner, his face twisted painfully. ‘Nah, man… it’s late, you should go to bed.’ 

‘You wanna talk?’ Roy asks, his tone genuine and concerned, throwing Mickey off slightly by the foreignness of it all. He’s so not used to asking for help. Roy throws a thumb over his shoulder. ‘My place is round the block, you want a beer and then crash?’ 

Mickey bite his tongue, knowing his immediate reaction would be a barked no and a scowl. He shrugs noncommittally, his hand coming up to wipe at the side of his mouth. ‘I’m good.’ 

‘You’re coming with me- no man, don’t even _try_ to fight it.’ He says, his hands coming down firm on Mickey’s shoulders, twisting him in the direction of his place. 

‘Alright, _alright-’_ Mickey surrenders, shrugging Roy's hands off with his palms raised. ‘Don’t need to be manhandled.’ 

Roy laughs out loud, the noise filling up the empty Queens street and Mickey ducks his head, embarrassed but pleasantly so. He doesn’t feel perfect, the shift in him hasn’t fixed but something lightens in his chest at Roy’s persistence. He shoves him on the shoulder, his knuckles curled, and they stumble down the street towards Roy’s apartment. 

His place is a short walk from the club, the ground floor apartment of a converted townhouse tucked away on a side street off Steinway. It’s nice, Mickey thinks as they enter the threshold, nicer than his shithole in Harlem. It’s smaller, but things feel settled and lived in, it feels like a home. He’s not had a home in a long time.

‘Lainie’s on the night shift at Bellevue, so don’t worry about the noise.’ Roy says as he waves him in, and Mickey suddenly feels like an asshole because he didn’t even consider it before. ‘Bathroom’s to your right, you can take the couch, man.’, he tips his head to the sofa pressed up against the wall. 

Mickey stands to the side awkwardly as Roy pulls the fridge open, uncomfortably out of his depth in a new environment. He listens to the caps pop off the bottles, and then a cold one is pressed into his hand as he’s being ushered towards the living area. 

‘Tell me about your troubles man.’ Roy says, settling back into the couch with ease, his arms extended out at his side as if he’s some self help guru. Mickey assesses the pros and cons of sitting down next to Roy on the small sofa, but decides abruptly to plant himself on the floor, his legs crossed awkwardly. He needs his space. 

Mickey frowns, bringing the beer up to his lips and holding the liquid in his mouth for a second before swallowing, delaying the impending vulnerability. He clears his throat, ‘It’s fuckin’ stupid.’ 

Roy raises his eyebrows as if to say, _try me_ and Mickey rolls his eyes but pushes forward, his grip on his bottle tightening. ‘You ain’t getting your suit back.’ 

Roy frowns, ‘You lose it? Come on, man...How d’ya lose a suit-’ 

‘It’s on the floor of my...uh, _fuck_.’ He catches himself, rubbing his eyes, ‘It’s somewhere I ain’t going again, I’ll pay you for it.’ 

‘You hook up with the bride’s sister or something?’ Roy says, and Mickey has to hold back a gag because his brain instantly goes to _Debbie_ so he takes a distracting gulp of his beer, wiping the residue off his mouth with the back of his hand. Roy looks at him, confused why his joke caused such a reaction. He pauses, ‘You didn’t hook up with the bride’s sister, d’ya?’ 

He squeezes his eyes shut, ‘Something like that…’ Mickey sighs, because apparently it’s truth time and he needs to get _someone_ on his side for once, someone neutral, someone who doesn’t know all the fucking baggage he carries around every single day. His head falls into his hands, the condensed glass cool against his forehead. 

Roy makes a face, but continues. ‘Alright, so you hooked up with a chick, then _what-_ left the next day without leaving a number?’ Mickey cringes at his assumption, but he can’t blame him cause Mickey’s never said anything different - not that he’s ashamed, he’s far out of those days, but he tries to keep his personal details to a minimum. There’s no excuse now, he guesses. 

‘Him.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘Him.’ Mickey swallows, hating that there’s still that nag at the back of his head, all these years later. The instinctual pull to run and hide, to bury himself and everything he feels inside. He blames his father and all the bullshit he forced him through. He breathes, the exhale coming out light and free, almost 10 years later and the feeling of not having to suppress himself doesn’t lose its novelty. ‘I hooked up with him…the bride’s brother.’ 

Roy whistles, and Mickey snaps his head towards him, ‘That a fuckin’ issue?’ 

‘You keep surprising me, Milkovich.’ Roy says plainly, and he leans over to clink his glass bottle against Mickey’s, who sits there, paused. ‘Nah man, no issue here. I’m no animal.’ 

Mickey nods, small and slightly embarrassed, but he shakes it off. He’s been working on being less defensive, reminding himself that not everyone in the world was brought up by someone like his father - though lots of things Mickey’s been working on recently have been rearing their ugly heads. 

He swallows, and continues, his throat aching, ‘Ain’t gonna see him again.’

‘Why not?’ Roy asks, a hand coming up to his chin and stroking his jawline. 

‘Complicated.’ 

‘All shit in life is complicated, man.’ Roy waves his hand dismissively, ‘You like him?’ 

Mickey bites his lip, suppressing a painful grunt in the back of his throat. God, he wishes he just _liked_ him, wishes it was that simple and direct. He shifts awkwardly and Roy’s pointed gaze bores into him, suffocating and close. 

Mickey can’t deal with the intensity in his chest much longer so he gives up, and allows it to wash over him, pour out of him and onto the floor. 

‘Love him.’ 

It rushes out of him like a wave, leaving him knee deep and vulnerable. 

Roy pauses, mid-sip and nods, cradling the bottle in his hands. His eyes are sad but it doesn't look like he’s about to say anything, letting Mickey’s confession hang there, dauntingly. Mickey fiddles with the bottle’s label, his fingers running along the condensed paper, aching for a distraction. Roy pulls himself up off the couch and moves back into the kitchen, Mickey hears the fridge open and the tell tale hiss of bottles being opened. 

‘He know you love him?’ Roy asks, removing the empty bottle from Mickey’s hand and replacing it with a new one. Mickey takes a sip, steadying himself as everything swirls inside of him. 

‘Yeah.’ It comes out as a whisper, shallow and fraught, the bottle barely leaving his lips. After everything and all this time, Ian _has_ to know he loves him, right? ‘He should.’ 

‘He should?’ 

The question makes Mickey’s head pound, this is so much more than he ever imagined sharing with anyone, it’s unknown territory but he doesn’t know what else he can do except gulp down the instinct to run away and push forward. ‘Prison, man.’ He sighs, and Roy’s eyebrows raise reactively. ‘I was in the joint because of him.’ 

‘You take the fall for him or something?’ 

Mickey presses his palms into his eyes and breathes, ‘Fuck, it’s so much more _complicated-_ his sister, his half sister pulled some shit, he’s done some stuff in the past. But, fuck, it wasn’t his fault, you know? He didn’t fucking kill anyone, or some bullshit like that.’ 

He was manic, he was manic and it wasn’t his fault. 

They were going to get fucking _steaks_.

‘He wasn’t doing well and got caught up in some shit, which was _my_ fault anyway- but, fuck, I wasn’t going to let her get away with it, you know?’ He can’t stop now, it’s like someone kicked open a box buried deep inside of him, everything finally free after years of begging for release. 

‘Then I ended up getting chucked in the joint because of it, on some bullshit grounds and he never fucking came to see me but _fuck_ , there’s so much more to it.’ His eyes twinge and he swipes at them quickly, he is _not_ doing that right now but he can’t stop the way his face aches from the tension he’s holding. Everything feels like it’s about to concave in on itself, his chest, the walls, the earth. He needs to escape before it’s too late. ‘Doesn’t matter, _shit_ , I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’ 

His lips sting with the lie, he does want to talk about it more, he wants to talk about it until his throat is raw and the words come out dry but he can’t. He’s never had the proper chance to talk about it - no one cared in prison, Mandy sure as hell never asked - though he’s sure the gossip in her wanted to and he’s sure as hell never offered anything up but he can’t. He can’t weigh Roy down with any more of his baggage, not if he wants some semblance of a friendship to remain, the guilt eating into his gut as he shoots a look at the clock. 

‘It’s almost 6am, man.’ Mickey says, avoiding Roy’s eye as he places the half full beer on the coffee table. ‘Gonna crash, you good with that?’ 

‘Yeah.’ Roy says, his voice unsure but he doesn’t argue. ‘Lainie will be in soon, but she-’ 

‘Don’t worry about it man, sleep like a baby.’ 

Roy nods, and shuffles into the bathroom at the end of the hall, leaving Mickey alone in the alien room. He shuts off the lights and the room plunges into semi darkness, a street light from outside shining through the small window in the kitchen. He shrugs off his jacket and shoes, lies down and squeezes his eyes shut. If he can get a few hours in before sneaking out in the morning, that’ll be enough, he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome - he already feels bad enough as it is. He hears the bathroom door open and Roy padding out into the hallway, his weighted steps falling heavy against the cheap floorboards. 

‘Bathroom’s yours.’ Roy says, stopping at the threshold of his bedroom. 

Mickey opens an eye and acknowledges him with a nod, ‘Thanks.’ 

There’s a pause, and he hears Roy suck in a breath. ‘Mickey?’

‘Yeah.’ He whispers, his eyes closed again - the complete darkness is easier to navigate, at least then he’s in control of something. 

‘Sounds like you gave a lot to this guy.’ Roy’s voice is low and Mickey has to strain to listen, not that he particularly wants to right now but he can’t help the way his ears perk up. ‘You clearly think he’s worth that trouble… it’ll be okay, man.’ 

Something shifts in his chest and he screws up his eyes even tighter, nodding because he doesn’t trust himself to say anything right now, his throat caught. There’s a moment, then he hears the door click, Roy leaving him once again alone with his thoughts. 

Did he overreact in the diner? Did he, once again, jump the gun and consider the worse? 

He wonders what Ian is doing right now. 

Is he sleeping? Is he peaceful? Is he restless? Is he fucking some twink into his mattress, their conversation and night together already forgotten? 

He groans, smacking a hand against his forehead, begging things to just shut the fuck up for one second, he just needs his sleep.

He knows he shouldn’t care. 

Except he does, he does and he always will. Roy’s right, Mickey did give a lot to Ian, his heart out and open, reading for the taking. 

When it comes to Ian, his heart will always be ready for the taking. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, tighter than before and lies there in the darkness, hoping the night will bring peace and swallow him whole. 

* * *

On his slow walk back home from the diner where he left Ian, he threw his phone impulsively down a subway grate. 

It had been buzzing insistently from Ian’s calls and he couldn’t take it anymore, every single vibration digging right underneath his skin and making him feel sick. He couldn’t bring himself to answer, his hand shaking as he pulled it out and Ian’s name flashed on screen, he knew if Ian got down on his knees and begged, he’d walk right back into that diner and pretend nothing ever happened. 

So without giving it much thought, he threw it down a drain somewhere around Union Square. 

Now, two days later, and leaning against the counter of some second hand phone store in the mid East 30s, he regrets it. 

He left Roy’s with his heart heavy in his chest but somehow his shoulders feeling lighter. He didn’t completely have the clarity he was so dearly craving but at least his brain had stopped pounding awfully every minute of the day. He entered the subway in Astoria and boarded the train back into Manhattan because after avoiding it for well over 24 hours, he realised he probably needed to shell out for a new phone.

‘I’ll have that one.’ He sighs, pointing at an old iPhone going for 50 bucks. It looks like shit but that was the most he could scrounge together for a new one and he wasn’t about to spend the afternoon with his arm down a grate. The guy working the register nods, and passes the phone and Mickey throws down a couple bills, grunting out a thank you and leaving the store. He’ll have to live off instant ramen and dollar pizza for a month, but he’ll survive, it’s not like he eats fantastically at the best of times anyway. 

He doesn’t think about Ian trying to contact him, he blocks it out and switches it off in the best way he can but he can’t help feeling the guilt creeping low in his gut, reminding him of the days _he_ was the one blowing up Ian’s phone, concerned and begging. He tries so hard to maintain his anger at Ian, to keep that fire lit and burning, but he’s exhausted by it all. It makes him feel like shit and it washes over him like sludge, thick and gross. 

He rides the crowded 6 train home, his brain elsewhere, unbothered when he’s shoved up against a pole by two confused tourists, maps unfolded and attempting to differentiate between an express and a local. He’d usually tell them to fuck off, but the instinct never comes. He stops in a Duane Reade on the walk between the subway and his apartment for an overpriced 6 pack, but almost walks right back out again when the tired cashier rings him up in a way that reminds him of Ian’s Kash and Grab days. It’s a simple hand flick as he presses the buttons, but it’s enough to make Mickey squirm, pulling him back to the hot hot heat of the summer after juvie and Ian’s young puppy dog eyes. 

He trudges up the fourth floor walk up, his feet heavy, weighed down by both the beer and the brick sized lump in his throat. He turns his key in the lock and bites down a sigh of relief at the empty apartment, sending out quiet _thank you_ to the universe that Mandy isn’t home. He hasn’t seen or spoken to her since before the wedding, and now he’s unsure what he’ll do when he does. 

It takes him an hour or so once he gets home to set up his phone, it’s confusing and there’s too many fucking options these days, but he manages to get it done and only swears once or twice. He’s got a new number too, so he’s got to go through all the bullshit of pulling together his old contact list - not that he even had that many people to text before. 

He sighs, and pulls out his wallet from the pocket in his jacket, opening it up and taking out a small, neatly folded piece of paper from the little pocket where a picture can go. It’s a crumpled, old CVs receipt that’s been in there for years and he flips it, reading the 3 mobile numbers scrawled on the back. 

_Mandy._

_Sandy._

_Ian._

He scribbled the digits down years ago, the summer after he came out and Mandy was thinking of skipping town to Indiana. He has them memorised by now, but he keeps them written down, just in case. 

They’re the only ones he’s ever needed, the only ones he’ll ever need. 

He dials quickly, before he thinks about it too much and brings the phone up to his ear. It rings for a moment, then the line clicks. 

_‘Mickey_.’ Sandy says, dragging out his name in lieu of a greeting, her voice tinny but warm and comforting nonetheless. She’s always been the type of girl to skip the pleasant formalities, it’s one of the reasons they get along so well - not really giving a huge fuck. ‘Long time, man.’ 

‘Need some advice.’ He grunts into the receiver, his fingers tapping against the counter top, agitated and restless, but pleased to hear her voice. ‘Changed my number.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘Broke my phone.’ He sighs, his hand coming up to rub across his eyebrows, irritated at the thought of his dramatics. The thought of Ian trying to contact him but not being able to is stifling and he feels like an idiot that he’s even hoping it’s a possibility. 

‘Fuck you do that for?’ Sandy asks, her tone twisting with confusion. Mickey pushes away the thought of Ian and pictures where she is right now, his heart mellowing at the image, hoping she’s keeping herself busy and out of trouble. They don’t talk a huge amount, but their relationship picked up after Mickey moved out to New York. She called him out of the blue one day, he still doesn’t even know how she got his new number, but she confessed that she’d moved out of Chicago years back and was living in Philadelphia with some girl she’d shacked up with - that’s why she didn’t come and see him. He felt bad, briefly, that he hadn’t tried harder to find her after he got out, but as soon as it was apparent there was no hard feelings on her side, it was replaced by a nice comfort knowing there was another openly gay Milkovich in their fucked up family tree, that he wasn’t the _only_ rotten apple amongst the lot. 

‘You know- remember, uh, you remember Ian?’ Mickey starts, his breath tightly held as he waits for her response. His hand grips the phone as he hears Sandy shift on the other end, there’s a rustle. Ian and Sandy only met a few times, they spent an evening during the hot summer before Ian was diagnosed getting completely wasted like the kids they were supposed to be. It was a nice breather away from everything they had been dealing with at the time, a momentary calm before the storm celebrated with warm beers and weed. 

‘Ian?’ Sandy says, her voice controlled. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’ 

‘Sandy.’ Mickey says plainly, he appreciates her feigning ignorance but he really could do with some clarity right now. He presses forward, ‘Yeah it does.’ 

‘No it doesn’t.’ 

_‘Sandy.’_

‘Alright, I’ll bite.’ She sighs, and Mickey pictures her permanent relaxed and unimpressed expression, ‘What about him?’ 

He pauses, but ultimately decides not to beat it around the bush, he’s too tired and needs the heavy weight off his chest lifted, ‘We fucked.’ 

Sandy whistles down the line, and Mickey moves the phone away from his ear, cringing. ‘Didn’t know you were seeing him again.’ She says, it’s blunt and Mickey recoils, frowning into the empty kitchen. 

‘I’m not.’ 

Sandy makes a sound of disbelief, something low and throaty before continuing, ‘What’s that got to do with you getting a new phone?’ 

‘Doesn’t.’ He says before he can stop himself, regressing completely backwards from progress he'd made from the conversation he had with Roy last night.

‘Right…’ She says, clearly not buying Mickey’s bullshit, then her voice shifts like she’s talking to someone else in the same room. Mickey waits it out before continuing, _‘No don’t worry, I got it.’_

‘That your girl?’ He asks, distracting himself from the creeping headache at the back of his skull. 

‘Rita.’ She says stiffly, the way she always did whenever she was a kid and someone made her repeat something. 

‘Right, Rita.’ Mickey says, rolling his eyes though mainly for himself considering she can’t actually see him. ‘Forgot you were bangin’ some chick from the 60s.’ 

‘Shut the fuck up, it’s Margurite and she’s _french_.’ Sandy bites, though it’s got an edge of fondness that sends something warm into his stomach. He bites the side of his cheek at the realisation that he _misses_ her. She exhales a breath, and it’s all fuzzy down the line. ‘Got more culture in her little finger than you.’ 

‘Fuck you, I’m plenty cultured.’ He counters, grinning. It’s nice to smile. ‘Hell, I might as well be the king of culture.’ 

‘Don’t think a 6 year prison stint counts as culture, Mickey.’ She teases, but it feels like someone’s cut the corner of a balloon in his gut, his momentary pause of happiness deflating into a pile of stretched plastic. He shakes it out as she continues, ‘Back to the important shit though, fuck happened then? Other than the obvious, _obviously_.’ 

‘Think I made a mistake.’ He says, his eyes dancing around the room unable to focus on one spot. It’s distracting but not enough to keep his head from pounding. 

‘By fuckin’ him?’ Sandy snorts, ‘Probably.’ 

‘No, _fuck_.’ He says, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing out through clenched teeth, ‘He told me that he knew I was in New York.’ 

‘Okay.’ 

‘He knew I was fuckin’ here and didn’t do shit.’ 

‘I mean, he knew you were in Chicago too.’ 

‘Yeah- but, he knew I was out of prison you know, _early_.’ He says, attempting to build his case but feeling like he’s grasping at straws. 

‘Yeah, so the guy didn’t want to see you, it’s shitty _but-’_

‘Ian.’ Mickey says, because it’s important. Ian’s never just been _a guy_. ‘Not a guy, Ian.’ 

‘Ian, yeah, whatever.’ Sandy says, and Mickey can almost see her rolling her eyes through the phone. There’s a pause, before she continues, her tone firm and sad. ‘But Mick, you can’t force someone to love you.’ 

He swallows, his gut sinking. Something pricks behind his eyes and he wants to say, _trust me, I know that._

‘We had this really fuckin’ great night, like really fuckin’ great, where we actually talked about shit like teenagers but then, _fuck_.’ He rambles, his heart halfway up his throat and ready to be vomited out onto the countertop. ‘He was talkin’ about _us_ again, and fuck- Sandy, would I be a fuckin’ idiot to believe him? _’_

It’s rhetorical and thankfully she understands that Mickey isn’t fishing for an answer so she just hums, and Mickey takes that as a signal to keep going. 

‘But I could’ve fucked it up now anyway, he was telling me about an episode he had and _fuck_ , I was just so angry at him, at Mandy-’ 

He stops himself, interrupted by the sound of keys turning in the lock down the hall. Almost as if the universe is sending him a huge _fuck you_ , he hears Mandy’s voice outside, and he cringes, bracing himself. 

‘Sandy, gotta go.’ He says, hanging up quickly on her protests. He places the phone back on the counter, the movement controlled and steady. He keeps his eyes down on the countertop, and closes them, counting his breathing. He doesn’t think he can look at Mandy right now, because if he looks at her right now, knowing what he knows, he doesn’t know what to do. He hears Mandy shove her bag down and stomp into the kitchen, her steps stopping when he knows she’s reached the threshold to the kitchen. 

There’s a beat. He hears her draw in a quick breath. 

‘The fuck have you been?’ Mandy grunts, his eyes instinctively flicker open and up and it’s the first time they’ve seen each other in the last few days, the first time they’ve seen each other since Mickey found out she had _lied_. 

He doesn’t move, he stays stuck on the other side of the breakfast counter, his feet planted and silent. 

His head thumps as he collects his thoughts, their eye contact fierce and intense. She was speaking to Ian behind his back for months, knowing he was in the city, and didn’t bother to tell him once. 

‘Mickey.’ She says, her lip curling. When he doesn’t answer she rolls her eyes, moves quickly over to the fridge and pulls it open. A hand comes down on his shoulder, tugging him in an attempt to twist him to face her. ‘Hey _shithead_ , I’m talkin’ to you!’ 

The touch makes him flinch, and he jumps up, grabbing her by the arm. 

‘Get the fuck off me.’ He barks, letting her go and slumping back against the counter. He keeps his eyes down, staring at the wooden planks on the floor. ‘Don’t fuckin’ touch me.’ 

‘What the hell is up with you?’ She asks, her voice steady but her look of control is betrayed by the way her lip shakes. She steps back and Mickey looks up at her, her face twisted and ugly. She crosses her arms and looks at him expectantly, and Mickey forces himself to look away because he cannot deal with her right now. 

‘Go away.’ He says through his teeth, using everything in him to keep his voice steady and assured. He needs not to fly off the handle, he needs to breathe, he needs the ground to stop feeling like it’s about to collapse underneath him. 

Mandy groans low in her throat, ‘Whatever.’, her tone bored and plain, it’s so painfully familiar he wants to take it into his hands and pull it apart. ‘You’ve gotta go get the laundry.’ 

He pushes himself off the counter and grabs a cigarette from his jacket hanging over the back of the chair, lighting it up deftly. ‘Don’t gotta do shit.’ He says, inhaling. Mandy makes a noise of disgust and leans over, pulling the lit cigarette out of his lips and stubbing it out straight onto the counter. He lurches, ‘The fuck you do that for.’ 

‘Wise up, you moron, haven’t seen your fuckin’ ass in days.’ Mandy says, and Mickey really, really wants to scream at her but he swallows it down. She doesn’t know, clearly. Ian hasn’t told her then, that he spilled the beans, that Mickey knows. Either that, or she’s playing dumb - he wouldn’t put it past her. He doesn’t know if that angers him or relieves him, all he knows is the throbbing pain in his gut and the dull ache in his head. ‘Not that I give a shit, but you coulda dropped me a text- _rents_ due tonight.’ 

‘Fuck off.’ He snaps, and she rolls her eyes. God, he wants to take her by the shoulders and shake her. 

‘Go get our fucking laundry, I gotta go to work.’ She dismisses, stalking out of the room and down the hallway. He hears her keys rustle and the door slam, then she’s gone. He stumbles into his room and sits on the edge of his bed, allowing his head to fall into his hands, his palms pressing into his eyes, wondering how everything in his life became so complicated. 

He knows they’ve never been close, they weren’t born to be close, you don’t get to build those types of relationships when you grow up in households like they did. Everything was take, take, take, because you might not get the chance again with Terry around. He cared when Kenyatta was beating her, but she was so stubborn that they couldn’t do jack shit. Milkovichs don’t need help nor do they offer help, not when they don’t have to. He was protective of her during school, but mainly because you have to be protective of your kid sister otherwise you look like a useless bum. He didn’t really care. He didn’t know how to care. He didn’t know how to care about anything until Ian came along and forced him to. 

Yet knowing all this, knowing that his relationship with Mandy might as well be nonexistent, everything in Mickey aches. 

He thought stupidly that at least when it came to Ian, Chicago and their entire childhood that they were on the same page. They’d agreed to leave it all behind them. Keeping the fact that she knew where Ian was, that Ian knew where he was and _wasn’t_ actively seeking him out to reconnect, a secret? That cuts deep. It cuts so deep Mickey doesn’t know if it’ll ever repair itself and stop the bleeding. It’s a betrayal in a relationship he didn’t even know had the capacity to _have_ betrayals. 

He hears the door swing open again, and the metal on metal sound of keys being thrown down onto the countertop. He pulls himself up off of the bed and wanders out into the hallway to survey the commotion, his chest heavy. 

‘Mandy?’ 

‘Fuckin’ where _are_ you!' She screeches, the sound frustrated and trill, making him jump. There’s a slam, and he moves quickly, following the sound of her vexation. He stands in the doorway to her bedroom, her head snapping up when she catches him, ‘The fuck you want?’ 

He feels himself being pushed over the edge. He falls. 

‘You never told me.’ He says, the words vomiting out like the stab of a blunt knife. He didn’t expect it to come out like that, but really, he’s not been expecting a lot of things that have been happening recently. 

Her face screws up, confused. ‘What?’ She says, irritated as she continues to rifle through her drawers, clothes flying out as she groans in frustration. She’s clearly looking for something and perhaps if Mickey was a better brother he’d help her out, but he’s too busy being blindsided by _everything_ else he’s been dealt with. 

He moves forward quickly, slamming his hand down hard on the dresser’s top, sending things flying. ‘You never fuckin’ told me.’ He accuses, it’s harsh and growled, but true. 

Mandy steps back, running her fingers through her hair and ignoring his glare as she stomps around her room, pulling things open and apart. ‘What are you talking about now, Mick?’ She sighs exasperatedly, refusing to take the bait and look at him. 

‘You and Ian.’ 

She freezes, mid-holding up her bag upside down to tip the contents out, the only movement in the room being her phone and make-up falling out onto her mattress. 

‘I know you guys were talkin’, I know you told him that I was here.’ He swallows, choosing his words carefully, grasping at the remaining ounce control. His voice shakes, ‘Mandy…’ 

She stares at him, frozen, ‘I-’ 

‘I know he didn’t want to see me.’ Mickey pushes forward, keeping everything cool and leveled, because he needs to keep his head on, he needs to stay grounded, he needs that upper-hand. 

‘What?’

‘The _fuck_ can you keep that from me?’ He says, the words painful and heavy. His breath falling out of him weighed and ragged, his chest rising and falling. His fists curl and he holds them close to his chest, almost as if he’s trying to keep himself together from falling apart. ‘When you know, you fuckin’ know…’ 

‘Mickey-’ Mandy tries, abandoning her task at hand but not moving from her position on the other side of the bed. Her skinny arms wrap around herself, her knuckles whitening at the grip. ‘That’s not-’ 

‘We left it behind, we agree and we fuckin’ ditched that shithole-’

 _‘Mickey-_.’

‘-and everything with and yet, you’re playing fucking _besties_ with Ian-’ He rants, his hands clenched and everything tight, his chest heaving. Something flies at his head and hits the doorframe above his head, he snaps his head up and watches the hair brush clatter to the floor. 

‘Listen to me, asshole!’ Mandy yells, her eyes wet and face held. Mickey holds back his instinct to fight, to scream, to push and breathes heavy, staring at her twisted rage. ‘Stop being so fuckin’ selfish for one second, and listen to me.’ 

‘Fuck _you-’_ He snaps, his reserve quickly crumbling at the mere idea that he’s thought about himself _once_ amongst everything but Mandy launches a book at his head and cuts him off. 

‘He was fucking manic!’ 

The book falls to the ground and the ground falls out from beneath Mickey’s feet. Something clicks into place and hits him so obviously, so plain as day, a fierce smack in the face. As his brain races to catch himself up with everything, Mandy pushes forward, her voice breathy and thin.

‘He was having an episode when he called me out of the blue, I didn’t know how the fuck he got my number but he did.’ She explains, and every single word pounds on Mickey’s skull. ‘I couldn’t just fucking- _fucking_ throw it back at him, could I? He was really going through the highs of it, things got messy back in Chicago and I somehow let it slip that you were here, and he latched onto it, you know?’ 

‘Fuck.’ Mickey swallows, it’s thick and weighty and full of baggage. Fuck, he’s going to throw up. 

‘Then he crashed, and it was bad. He didn’t call me for weeks then out of the fucking blue he walked into the gym and I was sitting there, working reception.’ She says, her arms gesturing out to the side, ‘He was pulling himself back together, still so fuckin’ low but he was trying. He didn’t want me to tell you or see you until he thought he was fully levelled out.’ 

Mickey breathes, blood rushing in his ears, counting down from ten in his head to keep his feet steady on the ground. 

‘He didn’t want to do that to you again.’ 

He doesn’t say anything, his stomach reeling, and she stares at him. 

‘Don’t fuckin’ blame him, don’t you do that-’ 

‘Wouldn’t ever.’ He bites, but his hands clench, the image of Ian’s face when he left the diner etched into his brain. God, he feels so stupid. Ian had told him he had been through an episode, he told him he was struggling, and yet, as soon as Mickey discovered about him and Mandy, he threw all of that to the wind and allowed himself to get carried away. 

_‘Fuck_.’ Mickey curses his frustrating need to jump to conclusions before allowing his head to catch up, he’s wasted so much time reverting back to his old take on the world, allowing his teenage snap reactions to fall back into place. He’s tried so hard to move on from the person he was, the hard shell of a boy his father crafted, yet it’s moments like the one with Ian that send him falling back into those habits. 

Mandy walks over to him slowly, he doesn’t move away, and she places a hesitant hand on his tense bicep. He surprises himself but not shaking it off, allowing it to sit there, grounding him in _the_ _now_ and not 10 years previous. 

‘Call him.’ She says, her voice whispered but serious. She looks him directly in the eye and maintains her gaze, ‘He’s a mess.’ 

He nods, ignoring the nagging thought of _of course she already knew_ and she squeezes his arm before she pulls her hand away, shoving at his shoulder playfully. 

‘Now let me find my MTA card before I get busted for jumping the turnstiles again.’ The corners of her mouth curl up, the smile small and sad. It sends a twinge down his spine and into his gut, and for once, he wishes things were softer between the two of them. 

‘Take mine.’ He says, surprising himself. His throat works around backtracking and taking back the offer, but he snaps his gaping mouth shut. 

‘What?’ She twists her body round to him, confused, her hands buried deep in the pockets of an old pair of jeans. 

‘Take mine.’ He says again, ducking his head. He doesn’t want this to be a big deal, even if it feels like it is. ‘It’s on the counter...I ain’t going anywhere right now.’ 

She looks taken aback, usual generosity between them never extending further from sharing a pack of beer or two, even then it’s rare. 

The crease between her brows soften, but the air suddenly feels stifling, ‘Thanks, I-’ 

‘All good.’ Mickey interrupts, his hand waving in dismissal. She nods, giving him one more looking before leaving and padding out into the kitchen. Mickey leans back, lightly banging the back of his head against the doorframe a couple of times, hoping for some sort of release as his skull hits the wood. Nothing comes and he sighs, hearing the front door close once more, and he pulls himself up off the wall and shuffles into his room. He thinks about calling Sandy back, but instead collapses down onto his bed, his sitting on the edge. His bones ache, his chest aches, his head aches. 

He tries to collect his scrambled thoughts, but everything merges into one big complicated ball of _fuck up_. Being mad at Ian was easy, he was able to justify his rage by blocking out the cracks in his heart and jumping the gun to think the worst - but now he just feels like a complete tool. He should’ve thought about it more, allowed himself a moment of pause, to think, to listen to Ian’s defence, before he flew off the handle and left. His anger at Mandy dissolves, she was trying to protect Ian, and he can’t blame her, his chest aching, because that’s all he’s ever wanted to do too. 

He doesn’t even know how long he sits there, hands pressed into his face, but when he finally manages to pull himself together enough to stand, something in the corner of the room catches his eye. 

Sitting on the old chair he bought from Goodwill in the corner of the room, is Roy’s suit, folded and pressed neatly. 

The suit he left on the floor of Fiona’s apartment. 

He moves slowly over to the folded clothes, eyes wide, afraid that if he blinks then they’ll disappear, _poof_ into the air. 

There’s no note, nothing to go along with it except Mickey’s confusion and his heart halfway up his throat. He slides the folded clothes under his hands, cradling them gently, and they’re smooth and ironed under his touch. Everything suddenly feels incredibly heavy, the suit, his arms, his heart and he reaches out a hand on the dresser closest to steady himself. 

It’s an olive branch, a life raft, a white flag of surrender. 

A peace offering he so doesn’t deserve. 

He’s suddenly hit with the gravity of the mistake he made. It rolls over him, not like a wave but a wild tsunami, crashing over him and drowning everything he thought he had stable and solid out. 

He gasps for breath, and kicks to the surface. 

He knows what he has to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was hell to write, i couldn't quite get it the way i liked it which is why it took a little while, sorry!
> 
> anyways, thank you for reading and i hoped you enjoyed - the next one should be around next week. thanks for the kind messages about my job, i appreciate it. we're in this together!
> 
> please leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed it (or if you hated it, idk).
> 
> [follow me on twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian) and [on tumblr](https://https://oforamuse.tumblr.com/)
> 
> see you soon  
> xoxo


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! sorry this is a day or so late, turns out that even during a lockdown i still find a way to distract myself (thank you, shamey discord.) 
> 
> enjoy! xo

Mickey makes the decision quickly, and his brain races to catch up with his rapid change of course. He places the folded suit back down on the chair - Roy’s in luck it seems, and shrugs off his shirt with shaking hands, fumbling with the buttons as he goes. He can’t take anymore time, he’s wasted enough as it is.

He looks at himself in the mirror, his face worried and weathered by the last few days of agonising, and curses - _fuck_ , he looks like a mess.

When was the last time he washed his hair?

The wedding? The day _before_? 

In a swift movement, he replaces the shirt with a clean one, giving it a sniff briefly before pulling it over his head and running a quick hand through his hair to fix what he can. He makes a face at himself, still looking like shit, just slightly more put together shit - it’ll have to do for now. 

He checks the address Ian had given him before the wedding, his name on the screen sending shivers, and shoves his phone into his back pocket. He scurries quickly to the front door, feet halfway in his shoes and laces untied, but stops abruptly with his hand hesitantly reaching for the door’s lock.

His stomach swirls with a low uncertain bubble - but he’s doing this, he’s doing this and it’s going to be okay. It has to be okay. 

They’ve been through too much for it not to be. 

He twists the lock, letting the door slam behind him as he bounds down the stairs, his heart halfway up his throat. 

As a kid he was convinced he’d never be the one in a relationship to do this, he wasn’t going to be chasing after someone - that was a vulnerability he couldn’t spare. He’d promised himself he’d never been the weak one, unable to survive without another heartbeat alongside his. However, as he’s come to learn, time and time again teenage him has been proved wrong by Ian Gallagher. Then again, there’s no one else in the world Mickey would chase after in this way, throw all on the line and open his heart for. 

Things are still complicated, they’re blurry and murky, like trying to decipher a message written on the bottom of the Hudson, but they’re clear enough for him and that’s enough for now.

Mickey gets to Fiona’s apartment quicker than he would like to admit, running half of Lenox Hill after eagerly getting off at a stop too early - he had to jump the turnstiles in the end, Mandy was already long gone with his MTA card, and he wasn’t willing to wait. Whatever fare avoidance fee he’d run into would be worth it. He stops outside the familiar building, doubling over to catch his breath, sweating slightly along his brow. His chest aches as he attempts to regain control, running the back of his hand against his forehead - _fuck_ , he’s going to stink like a pig, all his previous efforts thrown to the wind. Plus, he’d been in such a rush to get there that he’d forgotten to shrug on a coat, the mid-February cold catching his sweat with a chill. 

_This is it_ , he thinks, he could turn around right now and go back to the way life was before, or he could wise up and see what the fuck he can achieve. 

He scans the numbers by the door, pressing his thumb down hard on the one next to the label reading _‘GALLAGHER/SMITH 3K’,_ thankful that he doesn’t have to bite the bullet and take a shot in the dark. The bell rings, and after a torturous moment, the speaker clicks. 

_‘Hello?’_

It’s Fiona’s voice, static but clear, and Mickey quickly squashes down the instant disappointment that it isn’t Ian, clearly his throat. 

‘It’s Mickey.’ He sighs, cheeks flushing, the compromising position he’s put himself in only just setting in - he’d forgotten the red flush of embarrassment being the one doing the chasing. ‘Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich.’ 

There’s a pause, then she laughs, surprising him with the tinny sound, ‘Don’t worry, I got that...you coming up?’ 

‘Yeah.’ He swallows, and the door buzzes open. He scans the foyer quickly but it comes up short of an elevator, and with rolling eyes resigns to the short trudge up the three flights of stairs. 

The nerves set in as he ascends, his hands clamming up at his sides and he attempts to wipe them down on his jeans without great success. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to Ian when he finally sees him, doesn’t know how to approach anything and everything. He just knows he wants to be with him, he _needs_ to be with him, they’ll figure out the rest of it later. 

He reaches her floor to find the door already open, Fiona hanging out of it with a questioning eyebrow raised look on her face. It’s a familiar look from his past, one he was often at the end of in the first few days of him staying at the Gallagher’s house, and yet years later, it doesn’t feel out of place. 

‘Ian here?’ He asks, stepping right past Fiona and straight into the apartment. He avoids her glaze as he takes stock of the room, his chest tightening at the thought of the last time he was here; being with Ian, laughing and fucking, everything seeming so much less complicated than it does now. The couch has a folded up duvet and pillow resting at the end, plus the bag he’d seen Ian using rests at the foot on the floor. His eyes flicker over to Fiona’s bedroom, he swallows. 

‘Not right now.’ Fiona says, closing the door with one arm, the other one resting on her hip. Her tone is direct - in the typical Fiona way, ‘Hello to you too, Mickey.’ 

He swipes at his eyes and turns, too _fucking_ nervous to be dealing with _how are you_ pleasantries right now, but takes a breath, steadying himself. 

‘When’s he gonna be back?’ He asks, keeping his voice controlled, though a slight crack at the end gives his frayed nerves away. 

She gives him a strange look, checking the watch on her wrist, ‘An hour? I guess. He's at his therapy appointment.’ 

Mickey stops mid-pace, confused, ‘Therapy?’ 

‘Yeah.’ She nods, walking around their open plan kitchen and leaning against the counter - her stance so familiar to Ian’s he has to look away, ‘Just down the block.’ 

‘What happened to the _Gallaghers don’t do therapy_ crap?’ He asks, echoing the words he once heard a space out Ian mutter years ago. The phrase had plagued him for years, rearing its ugly head during some of his particularly dark moments in prison. Perhaps if the Gallaghers _had_ done therapy back in the day, they wouldn’t be dealing with all this shit now. Perhaps they would’ve been able to help Ian earlier, notice the signs and be prepared.

He didn’t suggest it either then too, he supposes, he could’ve tried harder too. 

‘Guess it was crap.’ She says plainly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and it’s a clear end to that topic. There’s an awkward pause, neither of them knowing how to properly navigate the situation before her expression changes, ‘Mickey...I wanna apologise for what I said at the wedding.’ 

It catches him off guard, the earnest look in her eye, but he shrugs and attempts to smoothen it out casually. Truthfully, he’d forgotten about the stuff Fiona had said to him at the wedding - the night with Ian he spent afterwards taking priority.

‘Already did.’ 

‘No, I mean I really want to.’ Fiona presses, her hands spreading out on the counter top. The silver wedding band on her left hand catches his eye and he runs a subconscious thumb over his own ring finger. ‘I shouldn’t have said any of that shit, you always cared so much about Ian.’ 

He nods, stopping himself from correcting her. He _cares_ , present tense. 

‘Sorry about the shit that happened to you, it wasn’t fair.’ 

A hollow, exhausted laugh falls out of his throat because she could be referring to any one of the myriad fucked up cards he’s been dealt over the years. ‘Which time?’ 

Fiona makes a face, clearly not expecting the blow, ‘Prison.’ 

He sighs, a bitter taste of bile in his mouth, and scratches at his chin distractedly, ‘Didn’t see you defending me then.’ 

Fiona’s face twists, her eyes turning sad and sending something dropping in Mickey’s stomach - is it guilt or something else? 

‘I was worried about Ian, too much on my plate. You gotta understand that.’ 

He shrugs to stop himself from squirming up her look, he does understand - even if he doesn’t like it, thinking about Ian’s all he’s ever really known to do. ‘You’re good.’

He wanders over to the window overlooking the street, staring down below at New Yorkers and tourists alike going about their day, unbothered and fast paced in the typical Manhattan way. Do they feel the weight of the world on their shoulders too? Does every single decision in their lives feel like the beginning or end of the world? 

Fiona clears her throat after a moment, pulling him back. She rings her hands for a second before continuing. ‘Didn’t realise.’ 

Mickey sways, caught off guard by the sudden spike in tension up his spine. ‘What?’ 

‘Didn’t realise the shit you guys went through as kids.’ She explains, looking at Mickey pointedly, and he takes a deep breath, attempting to regain his _somewhat_ level of cool he’d achieved before. ‘I guess… I guess I always kinda wrote you off back in the day. That wasn’t fair.’ 

Mickey gulps, something dark shifting low in his gut, he isn’t ready to have that conversation. Not with anyone who wasn’t there, not with anyone who isn’t Ian. 

‘He told you?’ He asks, voice held and hesitant, testing the waters of what Fiona may or may not know. 

‘He didn’t tell me everything, if that’s what you’re worried about-’, She says, and he cringes as his shoulders drop in clear and obvious relief. ‘Just that you’d been seeing each other for a long while before the rest of us caught on. Wasn’t always just a security guard job at the Kash and Grab, was it?’ Fiona smirks, a single eyebrow raised. 

Mickey snorts, the tension in his stomach ebbing away and replaced with fond memories of before, ‘Yeah, I guess not.’ 

They share a small smile, and it’s tender and foreign for them, but neither of them mind. It’s a moment they were on the cusp of years ago, never quite making their way over the line, things being too complicated, too emotional for them to develop a proper relationship before. 

She catches his eye, the corner of her mouth curving upwards. ‘There’s a reason why none of his other boyfriends worked out, ya know.’ 

‘What?’ Mickey asks, his mood suddenly shifting and his eyebrows pull together in a scowl because that is the last place he expected the conversation to turn. ‘Why are you talking about his exes right now?’ 

‘It was always gonna be you, Mickey.’ 

He opens his mouth to respond but his breath catches in his throat, stifled by Fiona’s words washing over him and setting themselves into his skin. It was nice hearing Ian say it to him, but it’s somehow even better coming from another person, an outsider. 

‘He should’ve come and visited you, sure.’ She swallows, continuing and choosing her words carefully. ‘Maybe we should’ve pushed him more. But none of us could get him to do anything for months - you know how stubborn he is even at the best of times, then when he finally pulled himself together and guys started showing interest- we always knew they were temporary.’ He catches her eye, holding her gaze. ‘Even if he didn’t, even if none of us acknowledged it properly, something was always off. We should’ve known.’ 

He shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot, not knowing what to do with this new information, and he knows it’s probably supposed to make him feel lighter, more assured that he’s doing the right thing by being here, but instead it sits in his gut heavily. 

They missed out on so much together. 

They missed out on so much together that Mickey can’t focus on it, because if he focuses on it for too long, it’ll be too hard to piece himself back together. 

‘When you showed up at the wedding- I was just surprised that’s all.’ She says, leaning her head in her hand casually before continuing to drop the next bomb. ‘He told me you guys hooked up.’ 

His eyes shoot to hers and his fingers itch anxiously at his sides - _fuck_ , he wants a smoke. He moves back over to the window, reactively clenching his fists as he looks down on the streets, distancing himself. ‘Yeah.’ He pulls out a cigarette from his pocket, holding it up towards her in a statement rather than a question, ‘You mind?’ 

She waves a dismissal hand and points, ‘Just open the window, bolt up top.’ 

He shoves the window open with one hand, the cigarette balanced deftly between his fingers, and sound rushes into the apartment from the streets below. He lights up quickly, the smoke filling his lungs as loud car horns fill the apartment. It’s the soundtrack to New York - he’s grown relatively used to it over the last few months, but he’ll never quite understand the need to be so _fucking_ loud. Fiona walks over, her own smoke in hand and takes the lighter out of Mickey’s fingers, lighting up with the ease of a long time smoker. 

‘ _Mr Big Apple_ know you smoke?’ Mickey smirks, moving the cigarette from his lips and tapping the ash out of the window as he exhales. 

Fiona shrugs and winks in a way that reminds him of the 23 year old woman he knew, young and Chicago driven, ‘He may have changed a lot of things, but I’m from the Southside. He ain’t changing that.’ 

He scoffs - no, there’s no changing that, clearly, Mickey has come to realise. No matter how hard he’s tried to shed his original skin and escape, he can’t. 

They stand there for a moment, heads leant towards the window, lungs warm. 

‘He told me that you know he’s living here right now.’ Fiona says after a pause, smoke falling out of her nose. She looks over at him pensively, and he shifts, avoiding her eye. ‘And why.’ 

He brings the cigarette up to his lips, hoping to find a distraction in the familiar burn. He doesn’t. 

‘Yeah.’ 

‘Listen to him, Mickey. He’s trying, he really is.’ Fiona says, an edge of desperation slipping through the cracks in her casual tone. It’s a stark contrast to the peace they’d just been sitting in and it irks him, he pushes himself away from the window.

‘I know that, _fuck_.’ Mickey bites, his defences slamming up instinctively, tension rushing through his veins. The cigarette dangles between his fingers, embers burning, his insides, burning. ‘Why do you think I’m here?’

‘Hey! I’m on your team here.’ She throws back, her arms coming out to her side in a frustrated motion, Fiona never was afraid to fight back, ‘I’m always looking out for him, you know that.’ 

‘So have I!’ Mickey says, raising his voice and rallying through. He’s revved up now, ‘Everythin’ I’ve ever fuckin’ done since I was 19 was for him- _everything_.’ 

‘I’m not saying that’s not true! _Jesus_.’

‘Don’t fuckin’ tell me, fuck- I know he’s trying, _fuck_. Sorry- I just, it’s hard, okay.’ He paces around the room, the sudden surge of energy pushing him forward. His fingers itch to curl into a fist. He resists, trying to control his breathing. Fiona stands back, letting the words pour out of him and onto the floor. ‘ _Sorry_ \- my life took a fuckin’ turn when he showed up last week and I’m still trying to catch up, didn’t think I’d be fuckin’ doing this again- didn’t think I’d see any of you again, fuck. I got out of prison and I said goodbye, I said goodbye to Chicago, all of I-’ 

‘Do you want to?’ She says, cutting him off and bringing the cigarette up to her lips. 

He stops and stares, his brain catching up with her pointed look. ‘What?’

She looks at him plainly, stubbing out the cigarette on the windowsill and crossing her arms. ‘Do this again? With him?’ 

Mickey pauses, not because he isn’t sure of his answer, he is - that isn’t the worry - he’s never been so sure about anything in his life. It sits in him, like the foundations of an old house, weathered and built on, but still solid and strong. 

‘Course I fuckin’ do.’ 

Fiona nods, meeting his jutted chin with her own. ‘Good.’ 

He stubs the cigarette out, irritated, the embers marking the white paint. ‘Good.’ 

The air sits between them, tense and unsure for a moment until Fiona takes a deep, audible breath, breaking the strained energy. 

‘You guys deserve good shit. I don’t fully know what’s going on with you two, but I just know that you deserve the good stuff.’ She says, it’s earnest and truthful, and Mickey’s shoulders drop, the air leaving his lungs in a slow exhale. He wants to believe he deserves it, he really does, it’s just hard after you’ve spent your entire life believing the exact opposite. ‘Ian deserves good stuff… you do too.’ 

Her words hit him right below the gut. 

‘I don’t know what’s goin’ on either.’ Mickey says mutedly, his stomach reeling at the unpredictability of everything. His eyes sting and he presses a firm palm into them as he speaks, his voice shaky though assured. ‘But I know my shit when it comes to him, he’s always been fuckin’ family- _fuck_ , I missed him-’ 

He’s not going to cry, he’s not going to cry here, that’s a thing that isn’t happening. 

He’s snapped back by a tentative hand coming down on his shoulder, and he flinches, Fiona stares at him, her hand pulled back hesitantly. 

‘I’m sorry _I-’_

His cheeks flush, embarrassed, caught and vulnerable. ‘You’re fine.’ He says, quickly wiping at his eyes to gather himself, the hard exterior shell clicking back into place. There’s only so much emotional capacity he has to deal with everything right now and he’s pretty much levelled up before even seeing Ian, ‘Where did you say his therapy was again?’ 

Fiona looks taken aback by the sudden movement, but doesn’t press any further, and he sends her a silent thanks whether or not she gets it. She runs a hand through her hair, eyes going to a yellow post-it note on the fridge, ‘Down the block, 1440 2nd - I think, _wait_ no, it’s 1430.’ 

He nods and moves back towards the front door, his stomach twisting, even more nervous than before he arrived. His hand is reaching for the lock when Fiona speaks again- 

‘We missed you, Mickey.’ He turns to look at her, her face twisted painfully. There’s still part of him that doesn’t believe her, knowing their worlds were perfectly fine without him, but he appreciates the thought. ‘Things just didn’t work out the way they should’ve.’ 

He swallows, ‘Yeah.’ 

‘Hopefully they will now.’ 

She gives him a final look before, turning back into the apartment and he takes a deep breath, steadying himself before exiting the apartment. He stumbles down the stairs, crashing out into the street through the double doors and heads off towards 2nd ave. 

It’s a short walk to the office building but it could’ve been a thousand miles, Mickey’s feet drag despite his earlier urgency, heavy uncertainty weighing him down. 

He arrives outside the building, checking the number quickly before leaning against the wall, nerves getting the best of him as he pulls out yet another cigarette and shoves it between his lips, lighting it up quickly. The sky is dark, the clouds heavy - they must’ve rolled over when he was inside, and he silently hopes it isn’t a shitty omen for what's to come - he’s had enough of those. 

He only gets a chance to inhale once before the doors of the office open and Ian steps out, distractedly looking down at his phone with a pensive expression as he types something out one handed. Mickey observes him for a second, his heart clenching before exhaling quickly and throwing the cigarette to the ground, the embers snuffing out under his foot. Ian completely misses him, turning right past to start down the block - it’s now or never - and Mickey lurches forward, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him round to face him. 

Ian’s eyes shoot up to his, his phone abandoned in his hand, and Mickey feels the ground fall out beneath his feet. 

‘Mick?’ Ian whispers, the nickname like an unspoken, cherished secret on his lips and it sends his head spinning. 

He doesn’t think - he can’t think - and allows his instincts to take over, stepping forward and grabbing Ian by the shoulders, crashing their lips together. Ian hesitates for a second, his lips hesitant against Mickey’s but eyes closed, his breath falling out against Mickey’s lips in short, hot puffs. Confused, Mickey pulls away, his hand snaked round at the back of his neck holding him in place, fingers lingering in his short hair as they stare at one another. 

Please don’t let this be a mistake, please don’t let this be a mistake, please don’t let this be a mistake. 

He’s practically thrumming with _want_ , and people stream around them on the busy sidewalk but Mickey doesn’t care - he doesn’t care about anything except the man standing in front of him right now and he needs Ian to say something, anything. 

_Please_.

Ian’s brain catches up with him, and he practically watches the cogs slowly kicking into action _._

 _‘Mickey_.’ Ian breathes, his breath hot and wanting as he pulls them back together again, his tongue slipping into his mouth almost instantly and Mickey collapses into him with relief. Ian’s bag slides down off his shoulder onto the sidewalk, and he kicks it out of the way of people’s feet without removing his lips from Ian’s. 

He pulls him closer, as close as he possibly can get in the middle of a Manhattan street, car horns beep around them and people shoving past them, but he doesn’t notice. 

The world keeps turning around them, New York keeps moving. Mickey’s world stops though, titled on its axis and it’s just him and Ian, everything else is white noise. 

They kiss and they kiss and they kiss. 

Mickey can’t get enough, he pulls him in, their chests pressed up against one another in a way that would be inappropriate for a public street anywhere else but Manhattan. The heavy clouds break, sending drops of rain falling onto them, getting heavier and heavier as they come down. Their lips don’t leave each other, the warmth of their breath standing out against the cold rain, both of them begging for more. 

‘Mickey.’ Ian says against his lips, pulling back enough to laugh, full bodied and joyous. ‘We’re getting soaked.’ 

‘Don’t give a shit, man.’ Mickey pulls him back in, biting the bottom of Ian’s lip and making him moan, his tongue slipping back into his mouth. This is what he wants, this here, this is everything he craves. The cold rain pours down on them, their hair sticking to their foreheads and eyelashes, soaking their shoes. ‘Gonna be so fuckin’ cold.’ 

‘We should go, let’s go.’ Ian says, his lips, his hair, his cheeks wet. He looks so fucking good like this and Mickey can’t stand it - his knees would probably buckle below if he didn’t have Ian’s arm wrapped around his back for support. 

‘Where the fuck should we go?’ He moans between kisses, and someone shoulders him quickly as they move in an attempt to get out of the rain but he doesn’t even notice the force - Ian’s staring at him, tender and wanting, and nothing could slam him back to earth right now. 

‘Back to yours?’ 

Mickey nods, pulling him back in for one last fierce kiss before pushing him back, both men with shit eating grins plastered on their mouths and he has to hold himself back from leaning in again and again and again. 

The rain gets harder, soaking them through to the bone, though Mickey could be standing on a warm beach down in Mexico for all he knew, the rest of the world is on pause and it’s just him and Ian, nothing else. 

‘Let’s fucking _go_!’ Ian yells through the rain, shrugging his sodden bag onto his shoulder and he gives Mickey one last smirk before bolting down the block. 

He’s an asshole, Mickey thinks, throwing his head back towards the sky for one last moment before starting after him. His feet pelt the wet pavement in time along with the fresh rain, dodging in and out of the way of passing pedestrians as he catches up. Ian stops a few feet ahead, twisting towards him with his arms out wide. 

‘What’s taking you so long?’ He teases, his shirt see-through and pressed up against his firm chest, his tight muscles visible underneath. Mickey bites back a moan, grateful momentarily for their mutual stupid decision of forgetting a coat before the shivers set in and he quickly regrets it. God, they need to be inside soon otherwise he may possibly explode (or, come down with pneumonia) - his dick going up in flames first. 

He meets his open arms, stepping up close and challenging him, his eyes flickering from Ian’s wet mouth to his eyes. He takes the lead, leaning in, their noses bumping as he lightly dusts his lips before he snaps his hands back and shoves into his stomach playfully, sending Ian stumbling back right into an oncoming pedestrian, caught off guard. 

The guy jumps back, throwing his hands up in an aggravated defence, ‘Watch _it_ , asshole.’ 

Ian recovers, flustered and soaked, and attempts to cover up his amusement for the pissed of New Yorker’s sake but fails miserably, the corners of his lips giving him away, ‘Oh fuck, I’m sorry- _Mick_ , you-’ 

Mickey laughs, it’s full bodied and comes straight from the gut, throwing his hands up in _a what you gonna do about it_ kind of way before taking off running again - two can play at this game and he’s good at it. 

His feet smack against the wet sidewalk and it takes him back to the day he beat up the old creep outside of the bar with Ian, he doesn’t remember much of it, only the coursing jealousy in his veins and the way his fists slammed against skin. They’d laughed then too, bolting down an alley way with Ian’s smug amusement masked by his _what the fuck is wrong with you_ echoing off the buildings. Ian’s quick abandonment of the other guy left him on a high for days afterwards. Mickey had still been in hiding, the wall around him built so high, but by that point Ian had already begun dismantling it brick by brick, no matter how much he’d tried to deny it. 

He feels like a fucking kid again, except this time there’s nothing holding him back and as the rain pours down his heart pours out too.

By the time they reach the uptown subway station, their stomachs ache from ragged laughter and they collapse in on each other, pressing up against the railing by the stairs. Ian walks his hand around Mickey’s neck, meeting their lips together, kissing and laughing into each other’s damp mouths at the same time. 

If heaven exists, it’s Ian Gallagher soaked to the bone and kissing him in the rain. 

They stumble down the subway steps, swept up in the wave of people ducking out of the rain and into the station. They slip through the open emergency gate, and jump straight onto a thankfully waiting 6 train, the doors slamming shut behind them. Mickey buzzes with energy, it’s like electricity running through his saturated bones and he never wants it to stop, he shoves at Ian’s shoulder and the laughs start up again. 

Mickey’s sure they must get some weird looks from the other riders, but he doesn’t care - his ribs ache for once with good reasoning, he’s damp and in love. They crowd against one another for the mutual warmth and by the time they manage to pull themselves together, they’re only a stop away from his place and Ian pulls him in for a quick firm kiss. He smiles into it happily and there isn’t an ounce of him that wants to pull away, the days of keeping things at arm’s length long gone because he’s allowed this. 

He still can’t quite believe it. Freedom never gets old. 

They get off the train quickly, moving through the station with a goal in mind, slipping through the turnstiles deftly and up the stairs. 

It’s still coming down hard when they exit, the sky even angrier than before. 

_‘Fuck._ ’ Mickey swears, because it was fun the first time but when you’re cold as balls and already soaked, shitty weather starts to get old pretty fast. He turns to Ian, pulling him to the side out of the path of other riders pouring out of the station. ‘Umbrella from Duane Reade or some shit?’ 

‘Nah.’ Ian waves his hand in dismissal, his eyebrow arched suggestively and Mickey knows exactly what he’s saying, ‘We just better be quick then.’ 

Ian extends his hand and Mickey takes it, his heart stuck in his throat, their fingers interlocking. They pause for a moment, staring at one another as the rain comes down, soaking whatever has dried itself on the ride over and Mickey’s shivering skin burns with desire. 

He wants to hold Ian’s hand for the rest of his life. 

Despite Ian’s earlier words they don’t run the short rest of the way to Mickey’s apartment, they walk slowly, pressed up against one another, exchanging body heat shoulder to shoulder. They have time. 

They have the time and so, for once, they take it. 

Time was scarce for Mickey growing up, for both of them. Time was spent fighting, scrounging for scraps and leftovers to see the day through. The Southside moved quickly, unapologetically barrelling through and taking everything it could - any time left wasted was an opportunity to lose. 

They get utterly soaked, but it’s worth it. 

Ian finally cracks by the time they get to Mickey’s front door, his lips pressing hotly against Mickey’s neck and working their way upwards, lapping up the water droplets spilling down from his wet hair. 

Mickey shivers, swallowing back the instinct to moan out loud in the empty hallway. 

_‘Fuck_.’ 

‘Hurry up.’ Ian bites, his breath warm and close in his ear, and Mickey’s hands shake as he fishes out his keys, twisting them in the lock once he finally gets them steady. 

They fall forcefully through the threshold of Mickey’s apartment and Ian’s hands are on him straight away, automatically pinning him up against the wall with a firm thud and blood rushes straight down to Mickey’s dick. 

‘Fuck, come on.’ Ian cups the side of his face and kisses up his jaw as Mickey’s hands work on ridding them of their sopping clothing. 

A familiar voice cuts through their moans, slamming them right back into harsh reality, their lungs gasping for air as they freeze-

‘Guess that’s my cue to leave then.’ 

They snap their heads over, almost comically timed, and Mandy stands in the doorway to the kitchen, a hand on her hip, lip curled. 

Ian moves to pull reluctantly off him but Mickey’s hand shoots down to his hip and holds him in place. 

‘Mandy. _Hi_.’ Ian recovers, his hands pressing against Mickey’s chest to press him back but his hands still linger on Ian’s belt, pulling the stiff material slowly out of it’s hold. 

Mandy scoffs and he ducks his lips against Ian’s chin, ‘Get the _fuck_ outta here.’ 

His low and growled voice sends Ian’s hand sweeping down his ribs and curling round to his side, gripping at his ass in response. Mickey smiles against his skin. 

There’s an exasperated groan across the room, ‘Keep your pants on until I’m out of this fucking house, okay?’ She snaps, stalking back into her room to get, what Mickey presumes (and hopes), is her bag. ‘Hands where I can see ‘em.’ 

They don’t move from their pressed up position against the wall, Mickey’s fingers slowly working at Ian’s buttons. ‘Gonna need an umbrella, Mandy.’ He calls, un-looping them from the final hole, ‘Coming down like shit out there.’ 

She ignores them, the door slamming behind her and Mickey immediately starts up again, shoving the wet shirt from Ian’s shoulders with quick hands. They’re right back at where they started, the heat between them whacked up to 100. Ian helps him pull his shirt up over his head and throws it onto the floor, bending down to trail kisses down his abs towards his crotch and god, wants more, he _needs_ more. 

Mickey grabs Ian’s reaching hand before it gets to his belt, yanking towards his room at the end of the hall. 

_‘Bedroom_.’

They leave a wet trail as they go, clothes shed carelessly and Mickey makes a mental note he knows he’ll never remember about picking them up - right now he’s got a serious case of _Ian Gallagher tunnel vision_ and nothing will change his course. 

Ian shoves him down on the bed, his back hitting the mattress, ‘Condom?’ He pants breathlessly between kisses, and Mickey manages to kick his zombie brain into action to point in the direction of the top drawer of his dresser. 

Ian presses one more kiss to his jaw before leaping off the bed, Mickey’s eyes going straight to his firm muscled legs as he moves, ‘I’ll get tested- _we’ll_ get tested, I wanna-’ 

‘Why are you still _talking.’_ Mickey moans, palming roughly at himself - he _needs_ this and he needs it now, ‘Always so fucking chatty.’ 

Ian grins, crawling over with a condom and lube in tow, ‘Then we don’t have to worry.’ 

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Mickey says impatiently, low and guttural, working faster at himself, ‘How about we talk about this another time- _fuck_ , and you hurry up?’ 

He appreciates the thought, he really does, and he’d love to discuss the idea of them being able to go raw with each other again - it was one of the good things they used to do as kids, and having that mutual safety is worth it - but there’s no chance in hell he’s about to run down to the clinic right now. 

‘Come on.’ He grunts, and Ian rolls his eyes as he slicks himself up, and fuck, he’s gorgeous like this, making Mickey’s heart pound against his ribs. Overwhelmed with a sudden tenderness, he surges up, pulling Ian in for a softer, gentler kiss than before. He needs him close, he needs him to _know_ how much this means to him. 

He loves him, god, he loves him so much he could drown in it - maybe one day he will. 

Ian makes a noise against his lips, and responds enthusiastically, their teeth clacking as his slicked fingers trail down his back and along the curve of his ass. 

‘Please.’ Mickey whines as Ian preps him, biting down on his bottom lip as a finger pushes in deftly, the knowing touch of a long time lover, ‘Yes, _yes-’_

He opens him up quickly, a single finger, then two, pumping out easily as Mickey falls apart, his legs locking around Ian’s hips to keep him in place. Ian lines himself up, leaning over him so they’re face to face, chest to chest, a position that was so rare for them previously - Mickey’s closet insecurity and stubbornness holding out for so long when they were kids. He stretches up, their open mouths meeting as Ian pushes inside him slowly, his back arching off the bed at the feeling of fullness. He bottoms out, pressed unbelievably close, and Mickey moans, never wanting him to leave. 

Ian tangles his fingers through his and drags the hand above Mickey’s head, pressing it up against the headboard as he thrusts in and out, setting a rapid pace and Mickey wants more, meeting every thrust with his own, burying him deeper and deeper. 

They keep going at that rhythm, gasping breathlessly against each other’s skin, taking and wanting, caught up in being as close as physically possible it is for lovers to be. This is it, this is everything, this is all he wants - all he’ll ever want. He could stay here, Ian buried impossibly inside of him forever and everything would be okay. 

The world would keep spinning and time would keep passing but he wouldn’t need anything else except this. 

Ian hits him with a particularly deep thrust and Mickey's eyes shoot open, a throaty yell adding to the sound of the headboard slapping against the wall, the wooden cheap bed creaking along with their movements. Ian’s eyes open mid-thrust, his face twisted with a pleasure induced smirk, and they lock onto Mickey’s intensely. He’s so fucking hot like this, sweaty and unapologetically giving as he pushes into him, and Mickey can’t look away. They stare at one another, souls and hearts open, their movements slowing with over washed emotion and Mickey knows Ian’s feeling it too. 

It doesn’t need to be said with words; the sense of completion, lost things returning home, a wave returning to the ocean. 

There’s been something missing for ten years, and finally, _finally_ , it’s clicking back into place. 

Ian’s grip on his fingers loosen and Mickey bites down on his shoulder as he quickens his thrusts, his hand reaching down and pushing his knees further apart, giving himself better access as his hips snap forward. It hits the _exact_ spot and sends Mickey reeling, jerking from pleasure. 

‘So good, so good- _fuck_.’ Mickey gasps, his words strangled by his ragged breath and he’s interrupted by Ian’s tongue slipping past his open lips and biting hungrily at his mouth.

Mickey feels the pressure building, burning low and threatening, his body begging for release, and he wants it so badly his vision blurs, ‘Close, _fuck_ , so close.’ 

Ian’s cock slips out, and Mickey gasps out a whine at the loss, his asshole clenching around nothing, begging, but he’s quickly flipped over onto his front and pulled up onto all fours. Ian’s forceful manhandling sets something alight within, his skin burning as Ian pushes back into him, and Mickey meets his thrusts with an even more ferocious force than before. 

Their skin slaps against one another, chest against back, sweaty and hot, only holding out for a few moments more before Ian digs into him fiercely, swearing into his ear as he comes. He lets out a strangled, throaty moan directly into his ear and Mickey almost comes instantly, his pleasure reaching its peak. Mickey moves to pull himself off, but he’s stopped by Ian’s firm grip holding him in place, his cock softening inside him. 

‘Let me finish you off, _fuck.’_ He gasps hotly against his ear, his hand coming around to stroke Mickey to climax and twisting his head to meet his lips as he comes, spilling out onto the sheets. 

'Yes, _yes_ , yes.' He cries, and the world could end in that very moment and Mickey would be set, spent and satiated. 

Ian slips out and they collapse down directly onto Mickey’s spilled come, and he'll have to wash his sheets in the morning though he definitely does not care when he’s just come fantastically and Ian’s chest is plastered against his back. 

‘Holy _shit_.’ Mickey says, breathless as he trickles down from his high, adrenaline rushing through him like ungrounded electricity, leaving his skin buzzing. 

Ian smiles against his back, arms looping round and pulling them closer, his softening dick pressed against the curve of Mickey’s ass. ‘That was-’ 

He cuts himself off, pressing a kiss against Mickey’s hot skin, and Mickey leans back into the touch, ignoring the drying come between their bodies. 

They stay there for a moment, minutes passing as their breathing syncs up, chests rising and falling in a natural rhythm. 

Ian eventually breaks, rolling them over with a pressed kiss to his sweaty hair line, ‘Should clean up.’

He wants to whine with grabbing hands to keep him in place but instead resigns to watching him stand, Ian’s firm ass jiggling ever so slightly and he falls back against the sheets, sweaty and gross but oh so happy. 

He’s so fucking happy he could burst. 

It thrums through him pleasantly, almost on the edge of vibration and his fingers itch for a cigarette. He reaches down to the packet he keeps stashed near his bed and pulls one out, lighting it up quickly between his teeth, smoke filling his exhausted lungs as he inhales - he’s in paradise, _this_ is paradise.

He closes his eyes, floating pleasantly in his new found bliss.

‘You’re such a cliché.’ Ian says fondly, the sound of his feet padding back into the room.

Mickey opens an eye and openly roams over Ian’s naked body as he approaches with a wet washcloth in hand - _fuck_ , could they go again? 

He feels his dick twitch, unapologetic _want_ flooding back through and he has to divert his gaze, forcing himself to reluctantly suppress it with a throaty exhale. 

Ian smirks knowingly, sensing his internal struggle and plucks the cigarette out of his lips and into his own. 

‘Fuck off.’ Mickey grins, watching Ian’s throat work around the smoke, his eyes falling down his tight chest, legs and ass. 

God, he could _definitely_ go for round two. 

‘C'mere.’ He says, reaching his hand out and Ian’s face breaks into a smile, the cigarette balanced between his lips as he lets himself be pulled back onto the bed. Ian kneels on the mattress, pressing the washcloth to his chest, and it’s cool and damp against his skin, gently wiping away any stray come before it dries. 

Something warm bubbles in Mickey’s stomach, his reignited arousal momentarily paused by the tender movement. It’s something so simple, so basic - the gentle mutual aftercare of two seasoned lovers - and yet it makes his head spin. 

They didn’t get to waste time on carefully washing each other down before; the act of sex itself being so dangerous, so forbidden, that they couldn’t afford to sit in it - they’d managed to get away with it, but who knew who’d come by seconds later? Moments after sex were more often than not littered with rushed redressing and a shared cigarette if they were lucky, Mickey shying away from any sort of tenderness in sheer blinding fear. The clothes came back on and everything was kept at arm's length, defences fired. That slowly changed over time, Ian determinedly chipping away at his resolve until he was finally able to kiss him, touch him, love him without conditions, without fear. 

He never thought he’d get to have this again, the tender post sex touch between the two of them, a touch he craved yet so harshly deprived himself of for so many years. 

Mickey takes the cloth out of Ian’s hand and wipes down his chest, Ian humming at the touch, exhaling between them. He happily breaths in Ian’s second hand smoke before tossing the cloth blindly onto the floor and taking the cigarette out of his fingers. 

‘Lie down.’ Ian says, shuffling them down against the headboard with Mickey’s head resting against his chest. Their legs intertwine as they get themselves comfortable, silently sharing the cigarette between the two of them until it dwindles down to its end and Mickey stubs it out against the bed frame. 

His eyes catch the folded suit in the corner and something warm pools in his stomach, he grins, his chest lightening with a small, breathy laugh. 

‘You good?’ Ian asks softly, squeezing his grip around Mickey’s chest. 

‘How the fuck did you get that suit back into my place?’ Mickey murmurs, adjusting himself against Ian’s chest, his fingers spread out against the skin. His bed isn’t as big as the one they shared at Fiona’s but neither of them mind the extra closeness. 

‘I buzzed a bunch of your neighbours to let me in, then I guess I just got lucky that Mandy answered the door.’ Ian says, his thumb coming up to stroke along Mickey’s jaw. There’s a light dusting of stubble he’d forgotten to prioritise in his last few days of wallowing - which he’ll eventually get round to sorting out, but for the time being he likes the way Ian’s fingers trail against it. ‘I was planning on doing a little grovelling, standing outside and all that shit until you turned up.’ 

Mickey snorts, enjoying the touch of his fingers, ‘Fuckin’ creep.’ 

‘You weren’t answering my texts.’ Ian defends, flicking the top of his ear before pressing a firm kiss in the same spot. ‘Wasn’t gonna let you walk away that easily.’ 

Mickey’s chest clenches tightly and he’s struck with the quiet disbelief that he almost missed out on this again. He’s never going to walk away, never - he knew it before, but he knows it for certain now. 

His heart hurts for the years he spent waiting for a moment like this and he wants nothing more to go back to the kid that sat in that empty cell and tell him that things were going to be okay, that shit was going to work itself out - just breathe and keep going.

‘I was stupid and broke my phone.’ Mickey sighs, his fingers trailing along the sides of Ian’s abs, tattooed knuckles dusting the skin. ‘I was pissed.’ 

‘Yeah.’ Ian swallows, placing his hand on top of Mickey’s to hold it there. He hesitates and Mickey feels the hitch of breath vibrate through his chest as he poses his next thought, ‘You pissed now?’ 

He doesn’t have to think about his response, it falls out quickly, an automated impulse that’s been locked and loaded for some time. ‘No.’ 

‘You’re allowed to be mad, Mick.’ Ian swallows, nerves evident in his hesitant, controlled tone. 

Mickey groans, making a sound close between amusement and frustration, dragging a hand down his face. 

‘I’m so fuckin’ tired of being mad.’ 

The years have exhausted him - his bones are tired, his soul is tired, everything about him aches with just wanting to be done with it all. Every single day for as long as he can remember has been a fight against something and he’s ready to throw up the white flag of surrender and say we are _finished_. 

‘I’ve spent my entire life mad at something- you, my dad, Mandy, myself. The whole fuckin’ world, Chicago, New York- I’m so fuckin’ tired.’ 

He just wants things to be easy, for once, surely he’s earnt it by now? 

Ian looks at him, his gaze concerned and smiles sadly, the turned corners of his mouth hesitant and small. Mickey wants to kiss them, so he does, edging forward and Ian meets him halfway, his lips planting firmly against Mickey’s. They kiss for a moment before Ian pulls back and tucks Mickey’s head underneath his chin, presses his own lips into his sweaty, sexed hair. 

‘I mean it though.’ Ian says, ‘You’re allowed to be mad- I should’ve come and seen you, I should’ve told you that I was here. I just-’ 

‘ _Jesus Christ_ , let’s not do this again.’ Mickey says exasperated, and so fucking bored, turning to press his face into Ian’s chest. 

Ian laughs and Mickey feels it right down to his toes, ‘Alright, alright.’ 

He shuffles, and pushes himself up on his hands, looking at Ian pointedly. ‘I mean it, you gotta stop beating yourself up about it.’ He says, and he means it, he’s done with all this bullshit. There’s nothing they can do to erase the shit they went through, ‘Can’t go back in time. We’re good.’ 

Ian nods, and Mickey thinks _that_ conversation is finally over, but after a moment he feels Ian’s slow intake of breath and a low whisper, ‘Are we?’ 

The tone makes him shift, sitting up again and searching for eye contact, the need to find Ian’s face winning out. Ian’s eyes are sad and wet when he meets them, ‘Mickey, you can’t blame yourself either.’ 

He tenses, something ugly shooting straight down to his gut, ‘What?’ 

Ian makes a face, ‘I’m bipolar, that’s my shit- I do shitty things sometimes, manic or stable- but that’s on me.’ He says, his voice hoarse and Mickey can sense he’s holding something back, making him want to reach out and pull him close, but he stops himself, giving Ian the space he needs. He made that mistake before, he’s not doing it again. 

‘Where are you going with this?’ He asks, bringing his hand up to run through Ian’s red hair and watching as his eyes close, Ian momentarily sitting back into the touch. 

His eyes flutter open again and he sighs, the next sentence coming out in a rushed ramble, ‘You didn’t cause this, you didn’t trigger it or anything- when we were kids. I know that’s what you think.’ 

‘I don’t-’ 

‘Yeah, you do.’ He says, and it’s not accusatory but sad, and Mickey wants to argue back, but Ian presses forward, ‘It’s in my genes, man. Thanks to Monica, it’s not on you, it’s not on the fucked up things we went through either, you have to understand that.’ 

He swallows, ducking his eyes, ashamed at the guilt he’s been harbouring for so long. ‘I do.’ He says, his voice shakes and it sounds like a lie, Mickey winces. 

‘You have to.’ Ian looks at him seriously, and his eyes lock onto his and Mickey feels his resolve crumbling, the weight he’s held on his shoulders for almost a decade comes tumbling to the ground. 

‘I’m sorry- I, fuck. I shouldn’t have left you there.’ He whispers, and Ian makes a confused sound, so he continues, ‘In the diner. I should've listened.’ 

‘I caught you off guard.’ Ian says, his fingers slipping between his and bringing them up to his lips to kiss, ‘That wasn’t fair of me, Mick.’ 

‘Still.’ He says, attempting to throw up some sort of defence but he knows it’s a losing game. ‘I should’ve listened.’ 

‘Don’t blame yourself, please.’ Ian presses, his tone digging under Mickey’s skin and wrapping itself tight around his heart, _‘Please_.’ 

He gives in. He’ll always give in. 

‘Okay, I won’t.’ Mickey sighs, and he makes a mental promise to try, ‘You’re not allowed to blame yourself either, though.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘I mean it, none of this blame game crap anymore. If we’re doing this, we’re doing this _together_ \- so no blaming yourself for shit.’ 

‘Okay, I won't.’ Ian says, echoing Mickey’s previous words with the same conviction, his smile wide against his hair. 

Mickey hums, pressing a sincere and honest kiss to Ian’s chest, and hopes it seals their promises for the both of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3
> 
> i hope you're all well and staying indoors - thank you for the kind comments on the last chapter, the time you take to feedback is really, really appreciated. 
> 
> [follow me on twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian) (come say hi!) and my ask box is always open at oforamuse on tumblr. 
> 
> xoxo


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, i hope you're all well.
> 
> i'm reaaaaalllyyyy sorry about this taking so long - it's been a bit of a rough week, but i hope this makes up for it. 
> 
> big love to my shamey discord pals but a major shout out to the two best cheerleaders a girl could ask for [vic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredavatar/pseuds/tiredavatar) and [michelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statichearts/pseuds/statichearts) who both have incredible wips going at the moment, so please go check them out.

Mickey wakes up slowly, his body clicking and popping as he stretches out on the mattress and a chesty yawn falls out of his throat. He smiles into his pillow - he feels so fucking good, and for once in his life, well rested. There’s the familiar ache of a good night before in his bones and he reaches out a hand to pull Ian in closer, he _needs_ him closer-

Except Ian isn’t there. 

His hand reaches nothing except an empty, flat mattress. 

_Ian isn’t there, Ian isn’t there, Ian isn’t there-_

He sits up quickly, his blood running cold followed by a sharp pain in his gut - _fuck_ , Ian still left after all of that?

The bed is empty. 

They’d fallen asleep in the same position the way they’d used to, back in those few months of living together, Ian’s arms wrapped around his chest, pressed up close against his back. Mickey hadn’t realised how much he missed it, being held, a safety net he never knew he needed. A childhood of being touch deprived meant that falling asleep in Ian’s arms came easier than ever. 

That can all go to shit now, he guesses. 

He squeezes his eyes shut again, they sting and god, he really didn’t expect this. 

Fuck this, fuck him, _fuck-_

He’s pulled back by noise coming from the kitchen - the clanging of metal pans, cupboards being opened and closed- and pauses, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing upright. His legs shake slightly but he pulls on a stray pair of boxers and walks tentatively down the hallway towards the kitchen, taking his time as if to delay the inevitable disappointment. He holds his breath. 

Please don’t be Mandy, please, please, _please-_

He’s never been so grateful to be wrong. 

Ian’s head snaps up almost instantly, as if he senses Mickey’s presence as he walks into the room and his mouth breaks into a wide smile. _‘Hey!_ You’re awake.’ 

His breath falls out of him with a heavy, relieved drop of the shoulders and he shoves down his creeping guilt over doubting Ian again. 

Mickey checks the clock on the wall, _12:49pm_ \- God, he was out for a while. When was the last time he slept that well?

The kitchen’s somewhat a bombsite with various food items strewn across the counter top, bits and bobs littered between pots and pans. Ian’s fully dressed with a spatula in one hand and a recipe book open in the other. Mickey hasn’t got a clue where he got that from because between him and Mandy they definitely don’t own a recipe book. 

Ian places it down on the counter abruptly, and begins to explain with a rapid pace, his hands following along with gestures - it’s cute, ‘You didn’t have anything in your cupboards so I had to run to the store- I grabbed something of everything, pancakes, eggs, _toast-’_

Mickey moves forward and interrupts him with a firm kiss, unable to stop the itch to _touch_ , and Ian’s hands flail out to his side, the spatula falling from his grip to the floor as he hums happily in response. 

He smiles against his lips when they pull away, his hands finding a place to rest above Mickey’s boxers, fingers slipping below the elastic teasingly. ‘Mhmm...what was that for?’ 

‘Wanted to.’ Mickey says, leaning into Ian’s touch and the words fall out of him like it’s the simplest, most obvious thing in the world - which in that moment it is. ‘Should’ve woken me up.’ 

‘Nah, you were dead to the world.’ Ian says between kisses, his lips taste like syrup and black coffee, and Mickey wants more. ‘Even a bit of drool.’ 

‘Shut _up_.’ Mickey pulls back, rolling his eyes fondly because fuck, he is insufferable and he loves it. 

‘Go wash up.’ Ian says, kissing him once more before pushing lightly on Mickey’s shoulder and turning to moving back to the stove, ‘Everything’s pretty much done, I was just waiting for you.’ 

He shakes his head, ‘Fuck it, I’ll do it after.’ and slides onto the high bar stool, highly aware of his hunger winning out over the thought of trudging back to the bathroom. 

‘You stink, but suit yourself.’ Ian says with a cocky curve of the lips, and Mickey can’t draw his eyes away, watching intently as he pours out a cup of coffee. His mouth goes dry at the muscles moving under the short sleeved shirt and he meets Ian’s eyes as he places it in front of him with a small knowing smile on his lips. 

Mickey takes a slip of coffee, it’s done just the way he likes it, and watches over the rim as Ian piles their plates high. His movements are relaxed and soft edged, comfortable in the late morning sun falling through the small window by the sink. It’s overwhelming, almost, how naturally Ian fits in his kitchen, floating between open cupboards and the fridge with ease - like he was always supposed to be _here_ , slipping right back into the Ian shaped hole Mickey had been trying to deny existed for years. 

He knows it’s stupid, they’re barely even back to being _them_ again - if they’re even there yet, but he wants this, and he wants it forever; homemade breakfasts and gentle mornings, arms wrapped around him as he sleeps, legs tangled. 

It’s all so _domestic_ he may scream. 

Domesticity has never come easy for him - the closest he ever got to it being those few months after he came out, living with Ian, Svetlana and the baby at his old house. Those months should’ve been happy, the years of self suppression finally behind him, and they were, sometimes - but those days sit in him, weighed down and painted over by the deep fear he felt every day, worrying and agonising over Ian’s health, too cowardly to look it in the eye until it was arguably too late. 

He swallows, steadying himself, that was in the past, that was in the past and he is here, now. 

Ian catches his eye, and Mickey realises his face must’ve given something away so he relaxes his furrowed eyebrows. Ian asks, sliding a plate full of food in front of him, ‘What’re you thinking about?’

‘Nothing.’ He shrugs off with a smile, not wanting to drag up old, worn out shit, ‘This smells fuckin’ amazing.’ 

Ian grins, and it’s all teeth as he slides in next to him at the bar, holding up his own mug of coffee for a cheers. Mickey raises an eyebrow but meets him with the gesture. 

They eat slowly, stealing mutual and content glances after every other bite, ankles dusting ankles as their legs dangle. 

‘So…’ Ian starts, placing his fork down on the countertop, and Mickey looks over at him with a mouth full of eggs - they’re really fucking good, ‘Lip and the rest of them are heading home tomorrow.’ 

Mickey swallows, wondering where Ian’s going with this, and Ian looks at him tentatively from the side - he thinks he knows where Ian is going with this, ‘Good for them.’ 

He pauses for a moment before shifting in his seat, twisting to face him fully, keeping his tone casual, ‘Come with me to say goodbye tonight? We’re having dinner at this restaurant in Chinatown.’ 

He sighs, scrubbing his nose instinctively, ‘They don’t want me there, Ian.’ 

Though he doesn’t know if that’s fully true anymore - his conversation with Fiona hangs in the back of his mind, but his age-old insecurity of being somewhere he’s not wanted, especially when it comes to the Gallaghers, still rings true. 

Ian frowns, wrapping his fingers around Mickey’s wrist, his voice earnest and somewhat _are you kidding me right now_ , ‘Yes they _do-_ I want you there.’ 

It’s all too familiar from the original conversation they had the evening Ian invited him to Fiona’s wedding - the night that started all of this. 

Mickey shifts his gaze from Ian’s hand up to his eyes and breathes, he doesn’t know why he’s still trying to fight this, ‘I’ve got work at nine.’ 

Ian’s face breaks into a smile, looking younger than he has in a while, ‘Good thing the table’s booked for five thirty then.’ 

Mickey lets a held breath fall out of him, his shoulders dropping, ‘You’re insufferable.’ 

Ian scoffs, like the shit _knows_ that Mickey will always eventually give into him, because he will, he’ll always give into him and Ian’s hand shifts back to his abandoned fork as he teases, ‘Oh big word, I like it.’ 

‘Fuck _off_ , man.’ Mickey says with a laugh, and he can’t help it, he brings his hand up to rub lightly at the skin at the nape of Ian’s neck, giving in to his crave of connection. He continues to eat that way, one handed shovelling into his mouth and cutting things up with the side of his fork. 

By the time their plates are empty and Ian slides off the stool, only then does Mickey’s hand fall away, his fingers curling at the loss. 

Ian moves to pick up his plate but Mickey grabs his wrist in a sharp protest, ‘You cooked, I clean.’ 

Ian pulls a face, ‘You can just owe me for next time- go brush your teeth, I’ll find us something to watch.’ He says with a short shake of his head. 

Next time, next time, next time. 

It’s enough to make his head spin. 

_Fuck_. 

He dips his head in a nod, and pulls himself up, shuffling down the hallway to the bathroom. 

Is he floating? He feels like he’s floating.

Everything is warm and fuzzy as Mickey brushes his teeth, the thought of getting to share a meal with Ian single day, the domesticity, the mutual fondness of wanting to be in one another’s company, it’s overwhelming, and unfamiliar, and yet it feels so _fucking_ right. He spits, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, before splashing his face with some cold water in an ill attempt to stop feeling like a teenage girl. 

He ducks into his room quickly to grab his pack of smokes, his nicotine addiction making his fingers itch, before treading back out into the living room. 

Ian’s stripped off to his boxers again, stretched out along the couch like a cat in warm sunlight and Mickey stands there, staring for a moment, his hands on his hips. 

I’d wanna go right now...but I think I just ate enough for a week.’ He says plainly, it comes out course and thin, Ian’s taught skin against muscles making his mouth dry. He licks his lips. 

Ian laughs, it’s chesty and full, and it makes Mickey’s heart thump, ‘Didn’t think you’d be defeated by a couple plates of eggs.’ 

Mickey flips him off, grinning as he flops down onto the couch next to him before shoving his palm onto Ian’s bicep lightly, ‘Give it an hour- move over.’ 

Ian huffs, but moves along, making enough room for Mickey to settle comfortably into his side. He leans up, holding the cigarette out suggestively, and Ian nods, leaning forward and taking it into his mouth. He maintains his eye contact as he lights it up - it’s hot, and Mickey’s dick twitches in interest, even though he knows there’s no way he can act on it right now. 

Ian hums as he inhales, and Mickey watches him hold the smoke in his throat before exhaling, ‘There’s nothing on tv except reruns of Friends or this random nature documentary.’ 

Mickey waves his hand, ‘Don’t care.’ 

They pass the cigarette between them slowly, full and satisfied, lungs warm. He stubs it out on the side table leg once it’s done, leaning into Ian’s side, and he responds by snaking an arm around his waist and pulling him closer, so they're flush side to side and thigh to thigh. 

Mickey’s eyes glaze over the birds on the screen, settling back against Ian’s chest and after a minute or ten - he doesn’t care nor is he keeping track, Ian’s breathing levels out. He twists up to check, his elbow clicking with the movement, and sure enough, Ian’s fallen asleep. His features are content and relaxed, a light snore rumbles through his chest. Mickey brings his hand up, stroking lightly through his hair though carefully not to jostle and wake him. Ian sniffs, and shifts himself, his arm pulling closer at Mickey’s waist. The movement makes his heart clench. 

He’s never really considered it before; the vulnerable position you put yourself in when you allow yourself to fall asleep lying next to someone else. You’re totally and utterly defenceless, easy to be betrayed by your companion like millions of others _have_ been before - backs stabbed and faces smothered - yet, people still go to bed every night placing everything they have in the hands of the person they’re sleeping next to. You believe you are safe, your soul and your heart protected, but it’s a gamble every single time you close your eyes. 

They’ve slept next to each other countless times; in his old bed, Ian’s bed, Fiona’s bed, and yet it’s here, lying on the dingy sofa he bought off of craigslist, that it hits him, _truly_ , how much Ian must trust him. 

It should be scary, he realises, feeling so much for someone and having that person put all their trust in you, but... it isn’t. Instead, it sits in him solidly and immoveable - like a well known fact that’s been laboriously proven correct over time, written in the stars and scattered throughout history. 

That after _everything_ , all the shit, and tears, and blood spilled… 

Ian trusts him, and in turn, Mickey trusts Ian. 

After sitting in prison for so long, his low light of hope long since snuffed out, he didn’t think he’d ever feel that mutual trust again - not with anyone at all. Not with Mandy, not with Ian, not with his brothers, and yet with Ian now, it comes so easily, like it was written in his foundational and DNA coding that he will always and completely trust Ian. 

He moves forward and places a warm, gentle kiss to the curve of Ian’s jaw, lips against stubble before settling back down against Ian’s chest. It only takes a minute or so more before he too is dead to the world, eyes drooping closed as he is lulled peacefully to sleep by the rise and fall of Ian’s chest and the knowing thought that there is no safer place in the world. 

* * *

They manage to pull themselves together for dinner a few hours later, Ian waking up first and coaxing Mickey out of sleep with warm kisses up his neck and a needy hand down his pants. 

Ian borrows a shirt off of him - they agreed there was no point in them heading all the way back over to Fiona’s for him to change before heading downtown. Mickey quickly regrets this decision however, as he swallows down a pained moan whilst he watches Ian shrug on a particularly snug shirt and button it up. It’s taught against his wide chest, Ian’s always been bigger than him and he kicks himself for their lack of time to waste. 

Mandy left his metrocard from the day before on the kitchen counter along with a pack of smokes to say thank you, Mickey presumes. He doesn’t really know what to do with the gesture, it’s nice he guesses, even if it makes him feel a little strange. It’s like the unspoken line between the two of them has been crossed in the last few days, and neither one of them know how to approach what’s coming next. 

If anything, he always appreciates not having to buy a new packet of cigarettes. 

They ride the 6 down to Canal Street, the journey pretty uneventful because Mickey doesn’t remember half of it as Ian stays pressed up against his side the entire time, his hand rubbing up and down his thigh every other minute or so. He doesn’t even think Ian notices he’s doing it, which only makes the whole action so much more ridiculously endearing. They exit out onto the bustling, popular street, and walk the short distance towards the restaurant whilst Ian follows the directions given to him on his GPS. They approach around the corner slowly and the Gallagher clan come into view, they’re loud and laughing in the street, and he’s struck with a sudden bout of nerves. 

‘Ian! You made it!’ Fiona says as they approach, her arms automatically thrown around her brother’s shoulders when they reach them. Mickey stands there uncertain for a moment, his hands deep in his pockets - was this a bad idea? - before Fiona pulls back and places a friendly hand on his shoulder, smiling sincerely, ‘And Mickey, you too.’ 

He looks at her gratefully, hoping it shows through in the small raised nod in her direction. 

‘Wasn’t gonna miss it.’ Ian says, smiling and leaning forward to press a kiss to the top of Debbie’s head, who popped up at his side with a young Franny trailing behind, ‘Gotta say goodbye to you guys.’ 

Kev and Vee, along with their kids, left the day before Fiona tells him, but other than that it’s the entire old group back together - except with more babies, growth spurts and the new addition of Tami and Greg. 

Being around Ian and his siblings is a lot and it always has been, it makes anxieties thrum low in his stomach, his skin itch and he doesn’t know if it’s in a good or bad way. He used to be jealous, he realises now, their _kumbaya we’re all in this together_ bullshit was more irritating than endearing but it was hard to stomach when he’d never had anything like that growing up.

The only unity you’d get in the Milkovich household being family based intimidation, carrying out death threats and on day long drug runs.

They eventually shuffle into the restaurant, unable to escape the awkwardness that comes with a big group of diners and Mickey ends up in a sandwich between Ian and baby Fred, it’s a weird combination but he swallows it down and makes it work. 

It still fucking blows his mind that both Debbie and Lip have kids - has it really been that long? Did things really change that much when he was stuck in the same place, the same world, every single day? 

It hurts to wonder what he could’ve done during the time he lost, and he tries not to dwell on it for too long but it’s hard, particularly when he’s surrounded by _constant_ reminders. He looks at Ian’s profile in a quick side eyed glance and it _hurts_ how much of _Ian_ he missed - the laughs, the drama, the boring mundane everyday shit. He would give anything, _anything_ , right now to have that time back. 

But he can’t.

‘Have you been here _before-_ you okay?’ Ian asks, his tone changing and Mickey doesn’t realise he’s tensed up, his shoulders high and his hands grip the menu tightly. ‘Mickey?’ 

He shakes himself out - pull yourself together, Milkovich - but the tension remains and he can’t help but feel like he’s been picked apart and thrown haphazardly back together. 

‘Mickey?’ Ian whispers, concern creeping through and Mickey keeps his eyes trained on the table cloth, embarrassment flooding his gut and he hopes no one else at the table has caught onto his mini meltdown.

‘I’m fine.’ Mickey looks at him, forcing a small smile and Ian frowns, ‘No, really I’m fine.’ 

‘Mickey-’ Ian presses but Mickey stops him with a hand to his jaw, feeling bad he’s worried him over something so ridiculous and unchangeable. 

His thumb strokes over Ian’s bottom lip, ‘I promise.’ 

Ian backs down, even though Mickey can tell he doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t need to dwell on this anymore than he already has - as he told Ian the other day, nothing can be done and nothing can be changed. 

It’s all very surreal - had he been told as a teenager that in 10 years or so he’d be sitting around a table at a restaurant in Manhattan with the Gallaghers it probably would’ve been met with a firm _fuck you_ and a punch to the stomach.

It’s surreal but right. He doesn’t think anything’s ever felt so right. He’s sure about that. 

They get round to ordering with a particularly chirpy waitress whose voice makes Mickey cringe as his eyes gaze lazily over the long menu - he doesn’t think he’s ever been somewhere with so many options. He has a momentary minute of panic, everything a little too much, but Ian’s hand finds the back of his neck and he manages to work himself up to picking out a few things that at least seem somewhat familiar. The conversation flows luckily without needing his input, ideas tossed between the family rapidly, so he’s pretty fucking content with sitting back and observing Ian in his element. 

The appetisers are rolled out pretty soon after and Fiona’s husband, Greg - he reminds himself, catches him off guard mid-bite with an overly friendly tone, ‘So Mickey, Fiona told me that you’re from Chicago too?’ 

‘Uh, yeah.’ He swallows, and Ian thumbs circles into his jean covered knee under the table, comforting and essential, ‘Born and raised.’ 

‘How did you get dragged into this group then?’ He asks with genuine curiosity, and Mickey knows he’s just trying to be nice but he’s already been teetering on the edge of emotional turmoil all day and the last thing he needs is to be _pushed_. 

Ian coughs, and Lip catches his eye from across the table. Both Debbie and Carl have also frozen, eyes wide and clearly trying to gauge his reaction. 

‘Long story.’ He replies keeping his tone as unbothered as possible. He looks over in Greg’s direction but keeping his gaze just that little too high that they’re unable to fully make eye contact yet it still comes off as somewhat polite. 

‘Do you still live in Chicago?’ 

A thick cloud of awkwardness settles onto the table almost instantly after the words fall out, a sullen stiffness amongst those in the know and Fiona places her hand on his shoulder, her face somewhat constipated. 

Mickey tries not to flinch at the question but fails, Ian’s grip becoming tighter at the small, sharp movement. He coughs, his throat feeling like sandpaper, and sits himself upright, ‘Uh, no- I live here now.’ 

‘Do you miss it? You must miss your home, right?’ Greg smiles, completely and utterly obviously to the box he’s opened up and tipped upside down on the table. 

‘Haven’t been back in a while.’ He says stiffly, his strained fingers cramping around his chopsticks as he stabs into a piece of duck on his plate. Greg doesn’t respond for a moment whilst Mickey chews, and he thinks he’s finally through to the other side as he swallows, but obviously he’s not in luck. 

‘Why so? Why did you move out here?’ He asks, and Fiona catches Mickey’s gaze across the table, her expression twisted and apologetic. He wants to tell her it’s okay, laugh it off and shake it out, but his throat constricts tightly in a struggle to form the words to reply. 

God, the guy really doesn’t take a hint - and then even so, Mickey can’t blame him really, _he’s_ the new addition here, the odd one out. Who knows how many years this guy has been in Fiona’s life for, clearly long enough given how he’s threaded himself and fitted into all the areas of the Gallagher family that Mickey couldn’t. 

Because he was in prison. 

‘Greg, how’re your egg rolls?’ Ian cuts in, and Mickey really could fucking _kiss_ him in that moment but he holds himself back, and allows the pent up energy to roll out of him in a short, held exhale. Thankfully Greg takes the bait and the conversation shifts away from him having to explain his years incarcerated, and he brushes his foot against Ian’s in a quiet, subtle thank you but the air suddenly feels too thin and he needs a moment for things to fall back into place before the next course rolls around. 

He shifts in his seat towards Ian, tilting his mouth slightly towards the other man’s ear, ‘Gonna go have a smoke.’ 

Ian smiles at him softly, his eyes concerned but doesn’t stop him, placing his hand on top of his on the table, ‘Okay.’ 

Mickey squeezes his hand, then slides his chair out, ducking out quickly before anyone perks up with more questions. 

He falls out the door, a bell chiming on his exit, and the cold air hits him like a bucket of ice, going right into his bones - but at least out here he can breathe again. 

He just needs a moment - he’s not completely freaking out or anything, but his head is all over the place, it’s been a pretty overwhelming few days without the 21 questions and there’s nothing more grounding than a cigarette between his lips and smoke in his lungs. 

He fishes out a cigarette and lights it, dropping down to the curb to centre himself, his ass freezing against the cold concrete- 

_Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale._

This is his life now. 

He watches as delivery guys flow in and out of a place opposite, and taps the ashes out into the gutter - he’s always enjoyed the hustle and bustle of Chinatown, even though he tends to avoid coming down this way because there’s way too many tourists. He exhales deeply, he should probably stub this out, stop avoiding whatever it is that’s anxious bubbling away and head back inside to face the _music-_

Someone drops down next to him, and surprisingly, it’s Lip. 

‘I’m glad you guys worked your shit out.’ He says simply, his arms resting on his bent knees, palms facing upwards. 

‘Yeah.’ Mickey breathes in, the oh so familiar sensation of smoke filling his lungs, it’s warm and trusting, ‘Me too.’ 

There’s pause before Lip continues, his hand coming up to rub at his chin distractedly, ‘Only taken you like, 12 fucking years...Ian was what? Like 15?’ 

Mickey turns and holds the cigarette away from Lip’s direction, his eyebrows drawn together and the ground feels like it’s shaking, ‘What?’ 

The corners of Lip’s mouth turn up, amused, and it digs into his skin, ‘Mickey, I knew you were hooking up pretty much since you started.’ 

He swallows, the burning cigarette balanced between his fingers, waiting for Lip’s smile to break and for him to laugh it off. It doesn’t, ‘Fuck _off_.’ He says with a low, disbelieving chuckle because he’s _got_ to be talking shit. 

Lip laughs, actually _laughs_ , and Mickey wants to scowl to at him but he can’t find it in himself because he’s really fucking confused, ‘No, man, Ian told me like straight away- granted, at that point he was also still fucking Kash-’ 

He keeps his face still, surprise coursing through him, and stubs the wasted cigarette onto the sidewalk, ‘You knew?’ 

Lip looks at him, ‘Yeah- what, you think Ian wasn’t gonna tell me?’ 

‘Definitely didn’t fuckin’ run to my brothers.’ He mumbles, suddenly self-conscious and slightly overwhelmed by it all, his heart aching for 16 year old Mickey, who’s hands shook at the mere thought of someone discovering his greatest secret, holding his cards so closely to his chest. ‘You _knew_?’ 

Mickey didn’t tell anyone - there wasn’t anyone around he could tell, he never had _A Lip_ he could lean on as his family was completely out of the question. He didn’t even have a fucking friend until Ian came along and that thought alone makes him want to hurl. 

‘I was just happy he wasn’t fuckin’ Kash anymore.’ Lip says, picking lint off of his shirt hem and flicking it away with calloused fingers. Mickey twists towards him, his head a shelled out crater from the fucking bomb he just dropped. 

What the fuck?

‘So you had all this dirt on me- and even when I had to get married, you didn’t think about calling me out?...even with the shit Ian was going through?’ Mickey says, keeping his voice controlled even though it feels like it’s about to break, caught on the edge between admirable disbelief and a low, sick disgust at himself. ‘Everyone would’ve known it was a fuckin’ sham.’ 

‘And what? Get myself killed by Ian cause you’d been _murdered_ by your dad? Nah- that was your shit, man. Wasn’t my place.’ Lip says with a wave of his hand like he’s just dismissed a completely obvious fact, and Mickey has to squeeze at the bridge of his nose to keep himself from collapsing back onto the sidewalk, ‘It was fucking hard seeing Ian lose his mind over you...I even told him to go fuck someone else, someone his own age- but, that was your shit you were dealing with.’ 

‘He should’ve.’

Something cracks and the word falls out bitterly before he can stop it, and Mickey can feel himself teetering on the edge of something a lot uglier, he swallows, willing it away. 

‘Yeah, maybe.’ Lip shifts, stretching his legs out straight into the road and Mickey’s throat hurts, ‘He didn’t want to though.’ 

The revelation swamps him.

Lip knew. Lip knew the entire time and he didn’t tell a single fucking soul. 

It doesn’t hit him like a brick - maybe it should, he thinks - but seeps into him slowly, filling him up and stinging behind the eyes. Every interaction they had, those moments during the summer supplying the ice cream van, any time he was around with Mandy, anytime at Alibi - all of those moments are suddenly flushed with a pink tinted haze, the same and yet, so _fucking_ different. 

Because Lip _knew_. 

He always thought that Lip caught on somewhere around the time Ian came back from the army and was working at the seedy club - that Ian must’ve mentioned it before running off or whatever, but it never occurred to him _once_ that Lip knew from the get go. 

They sit in silence and it crosses his mind briefly they should think about heading inside soon, that Ian’s probably suspicious - maybe even worried he’s run off, but something keeps him stuck in place, hesitant and unfinished. He looks up at the sky, there's no stars - it’s Manhattan after all, and breathes in deeply. 

‘I was livin’ a fuckin’ lie.’ He says after a second, and he anxiously picks at reddened skin around his left thumb. His voice tremors slightly as he continues, his breath coming out in puffs of vapour, ‘Wouldn’t have blamed you, if you had- you know, outed me. Caused a lot of shit cause I was a pussy about it.’ 

‘I would’ve been a pussy too with your dad, but… I don’t blame you, and neither does Ian.’ Lip says with a nod, his hand coming down uncharacteristically on Mickey’s shoulder and it takes everything in him not to flinch from it all.

Mickey doesn’t know what the _fuck_ is going on because he and Lip haven’t ever really had a conversation longer than two minutes, and especially not one that didn’t leave him feeling worse for wear. They’d worked together years ago with Ian’s health for a while, but then he got carted off to prison and any relationship they’d built between the two of them hit the fan. 

Are they finally in a place where they can have that now? 

‘You’re good for him- it was the other shit that got in the way.’ Lip says, and _that’s_ what hits him like a brick, the air falling out of his lungs as Lip stands back up and holds out a hand. Mickey takes it, everything feeling so fucking _different_ , and he’s pulled up off the curb. ‘Fuckin’ cold. We should get back inside.’ 

He nods, and Lip turns to leave but Mickey manages to spit out a strangled, ‘Lip.’ 

Lip stops, turning towards him with his feet still edging towards the door. ‘Yeah?’ 

‘Thanks.’ 

Lip gives him a look, the essence of a small smile, a _don’t worry about it_ and shrugs, pushing the door back open and heading back into the restaurant. 

Mickey follows quickly, managing to slip through the door before it closes behind Lip and slides back into his chair next to Ian. 

‘You good?’ Ian says with a tinge of concern, though Mickey appreciates the fact he’s trying to hide it, ‘That was longer than a smoke.’ 

‘Lip’s a talker.’ Mickey says, swiping at his nose and smiling back, ‘All good.’ 

He’s good. They’re good. 

He doesn’t know what tomorrow is going to bring but today is good. 

The rest of the meal passes quickly, it’s _fucking_ delicious and for the second time that day Mickey thinks he’s probably expanded at least three times his size. Greg surprisingly takes care of the entire bill, refusing to take anyone else’s cash when offered (which is good because Mickey definitely wasn’t about to offer any). He doesn’t even see the guy’s credit card, it's all done so quickly and he wonders what it must be like to live that way, easy and carefree. 

He catches himself on their way out smiling at a joke Carl cracks mid telling a story about Debbie when she was younger, and it sinks into him with a quick touch to his cheek that despite everything he’s actually _enjoying_ himself. 

The air shifts once they get outside of the restaurant and the looming goodbyes begin. Mickey finds himself hanging back from the main action, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He keeps his eyes on Ian though, watching as he goes from family member to family member, pulling them into his arms and sitting there for a second. 

‘Good to have you back.’ A voice says at his side and he pulls his eyes away from Ian, it’s Carl with his hand outstretched and before he knows it he’s pulled into a hug, a hand clapping down on his back. 

‘Yeah.’ Mickey says, not knowing what to do with the sudden, touching gesture. ‘Thanks.’ 

Carl nods, stepping away and Mickey’s head thumps because everyone is suddenly turned towards him expectantly, Ian too far away for him to hide behind. 

‘Thanks for dinner.’ He nods towards Greg and Fiona’s smile widens, her face beaming.

‘Anytime.’ He replies, and it seems like he genuinely means it. 

‘Get back home okay.’ Mickey says with a swipe down his face, and he doesn’t think anyone misses the cracked _home_ hanging in the air heavily. 

He doesn’t even know where he’d consider home anymore. 

‘See you soon, Mickey.’ Fiona says with a small, tentative smile and he thinks she can tell that he - and Ian - don’t need a long, winded goodbye right now because even though Fiona still lives in New York, he knows she’s saying it for the rest of them. 

Ian steps forward and takes Mickey’s hand in his, and things suddenly seem a whole lot clearer than a moment before. 

Home. 

‘Love you guys.’ Ian says, and Mickey doesn’t need to look at him to know his eyes are wet so he presses himself into Ian’s side, a barely noticeable _I’m here,_ ‘See you soon.’ 

With a few more teary eyes and goodbyes, the Gallaghers are gone almost as quickly as they came, bringing the most upside down and ridiculous week of Mickey’s post prison life to an end. 

‘Let’s go.’ Ian says, squeezing his hand tightly, and Mickey doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through a shift for the next couple of hours. 

They walk slowly towards the subway a few blocks over, their heavy feet and brushing hands itching to delay the fact they’re having to head in different directions for the first time in over 24 hours. 

‘I’ll come round tomorrow.’ Ian says, his hands coming up to rub at his biceps, and he leans in closer, his lips dusting his, ‘Or you could skip.’ 

‘I’ve gotta go.’ He sighs, because as tempting as that sounds, he knows Roy will have his ass if he calls in sick. His hands come on top of Ian’s to hold him there for a little moment longer, ‘Don’t want to.’ 

Ian rolls his eyes, but dips his head towards his and meets their lips together softly, his hands dropping from his arms to wrap around his back and bring him in closer. Mickey opens his mouth and Ian’s tongue slips into it, pressing itself against his with a low moan. 

‘You’ve got to go.’ Ian pulls away resting his forehead against his, his breathing ragged and needy. 

‘ _Fuck_ , I don’t want to.’ Mickey kisses him again, their noses bumping and after a second Ian presses his hands against his shoulders and pushes him away. 

_‘Go_.’ Ian says with a coy curl of his lips, his voice low and hot, and all Mickey wants to do is put his mouth on his and _take_ but reluctantly reigns himself in. 

‘I better fuckin’ see you first thing tomorrow.’ 

‘Wouldn’t miss it.’

He surges forward for one last kiss then backs away, turning around hastily, because he’ll stay here forever otherwise, and almost sends himself head first down the stairs into the station. Ian stands at the top of the steps, bent over and laughing and Mickey wants to flip him off but he can’t stop himself from _fucking_ smiling. 

‘You're a fuckin’ idiot- see you tomorrow!’ Ian calls, waving him off with a grin and shit, Mickey is so fucking _in love_.

His ride over to Astoria is a blur, the high from spending the last day with Ian failing to wear off and quite frankly, Mickey doesn’t want it to. For the first time in years he feels elated, the unfamiliar sensation thrums through him and he feels like he might float away if he isn’t careful - it’s weird. 

It’s weird, but a good kind of weird. A new kind of weird. 

‘Congrats, man.’ Roy says when he sees him, clapping down hard in his shoulder as they take up their assumed position out front of the club. 

Mickey side eyes him, ‘The fuck for?’ 

‘Gettin’ laid.’ Roy grins, and Mickey nearly chokes, ‘Never seen you this fuckin’ happy.’ 

‘I didn’t even say anything.’ 

‘Didn’t have to.’ Roy clicks his tongue, ‘So who was he?’ 

Mickey looks at him plainly, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to drop it so eventually gives in, throwing him a raised eyebrow _who do you think_ expression. 

Roy makes a triumphant noise at the back of his throat, ‘That’s what I’m talkin’ _about-_ put it here.’ 

He holds his hand up in front of Mickey’s face, and Mickey rolls his eyes but meets his hand in the requested high five - because, yeah, he’s pretty fucking happy about it. 

There've been very few things in Mickey Milkovich’s life he thinks warranted a high five, but having Ian back in his life? That would be top of the list. 

‘So, you and the boy good now?’ 

‘Think so.’ Mickey says, the corners of his mouth curling upwards in a small, soft smile. His guts feel like they may spill all over the place but he can’t get over how fucking _normal_ everything felt today, ‘Hope so.’ 

‘Shit, man.’ Roy says, and Mickey’s heart thumps at how genuinely happy Roy is for him - he’s never really had that before, a friend, ‘Knew you could do it.’ 

He’s glad he did at least, Mickey had been really doubting himself there for a second. 

He doesn’t reply but throws Roy a grateful look, letting the comment wash over him and bubble warmly to his feet.

The first hour passes slowly, it’s not such a busy night and Mickey’s grateful - he doesn’t think he could pull off his tough _bodyguard_ schtick right now, considering how his internal organs are trying out for the fucking olympics with the all kinds of gymnastics they’re doing right now. 

Everything is just Ian, Ian, Ian. 

‘Gotta piss.’ He says, giving into an itching urge and claps a hand down on Roy’s shoulder, ‘You good for 2 minutes?’

‘Yeah, man.’ He nods, and Mickey ducks through the low doorway and into the booming club. 

He navigates his way through the crowd of pressed up, sweaty people, a loud poppy number rattling through the speakers. He catches the eye of the bartender, Beth - a young girl from Hungary who makes a mean Moscow Mule on the side of just a little _too much_ vodka - and raises his hand as he weaves past. 

There isn’t a line and he slips into a cubicle easily, shutting the door behind him and leaning his back against the wood. He pulls his phone out of his coat pocket, dialling the number quickly before his brain catches up with him and convinces himself not to, his fingers tapping impatiently against the device as it rings. It connects, and his hand clenches. 

‘Hey.’ He says, looking up towards the ceiling, the cheap fluorescent lights making his eyes sting. 

Ian laughs, and he can see the way his chest and shoulders move with it, ‘Hey yourself… it’s been what, an hour? What’s up?’

He’s not about to say _I wanted to hear your voice_ or something fucking ridiculous like that, even if it is partly (mostly) true. It’s almost like he needed to remind himself that Ian is there, back in his life and they are _true_ \- it’s no longer hope and dreams, it’s truth. 

‘I…I don’t know why I called actually.’ He swallows, trying to ignore the feeling of being an over eager idiot, his heart out there - his wanting needs obvious, ‘Forget it- I’m gonna get back-’

‘Want me to come over when you’re done?’ Ian cuts him off, his voice static but full and the question stills Mickey, his breath falling out stuttered through his teeth. 

‘That’s not until like 4am, you don’t gotta do that-’ 

‘I’ll text Mandy to let me in earlier, can’t promise I’ll be awake though.’ 

‘Okay.’ He hopes Ian can hear the smile in his voice because his cheeks fucking hurt from how tightly he’s holding it, ‘Okay- I’ll see you at home then?’ 

‘I’ll see you at home. Get back to work, you slacker- they payin’ you to call me up?’ 

Home. He swallows. 

‘Fuck off, I’ll see you later.’ 

Ian says goodbye and Mickey hangs up quickly, stopping himself from prolonging going back to work even further - no matter how much he wants to. He hangs back in the stall for one moment more, his heart warm and anxious for his shift to be over already, and pees for good measure before exiting the restroom. 

He washes his hands quickly and slips back out into the club, squeezing past two people really going at one another pressed up by the wall, he rolls his eyes but bites back the need comment - the thought of seeing Ian in a few hours pushing him through and back outside. 

The cold hits him almost instantly - he’d forgotten how _fucking_ freezing it was, the contrast of the sweaty, warm club stinging his skin. 

He blows hot air on his hands as he settles in back next to Roy, casting his eye down the line and his heart flying up his throat and out onto the sidewalk in front when he sees-

 _Ian_. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, opening them again and sure enough, Ian’s there, a few heads down from the front. Ian catches his eye and smiles, pulling a _I’m totally innocent, I’m not sure what you’re talking about_ face, and Mickey shakes his head, his mouth gaping in disbelief. 

He breathes in deeply, taking everything in and tries to process it all - how the fuck is Ian _here_ , when he literally was just on the phone to him less than 3 minutes ago? 

Roy nudges him in the side, and he’s pulled away from Ian abruptly, realising that there’s a bored looking woman standing in front of him with their ID ready to be checked. 

‘Sorry- yeah you’re good, whatever.’ He dismisses, his eyes flickering from the ID back up to Ian quickly, his heart tight and thumping. The woman remains there, he scowls with an eye roll but doesn’t give her much more than that, ‘What did I just say? You’re good- get in there.’ 

Ian’s step forward, knocking the air out of his lungs, and he has to hold himself up from buckling down to the pavement.

‘Fuck you doin’ here?’ He asks, making no effort to conceal the wide and genuine smile forming on his face, and Ian beams back. 

Mickey has to stop himself from lurching forward for a kiss when Ian hands over his ID, his lips, his face, his cheeks, all looking so _fucking_ kissable. He feels ridiculous - it’s only been a few hours, since they last saw each other, minutes since they last spoke and yet he still wants more. 

‘Just thought I’d stop by… someone told me about this club- said it had pretty good music.’ Ian shrugs innocently, though his eyes meet his knowingly and Mickey wants to take him by the shoulders and fucking _ravish_ him. ‘And security.’ 

Mickey stares at him, he looks so _fucking_ good under the fluorescent street lights and he smiles like he knows it - how does someone look good in fluorescents?

‘That right?’ Mickey says, his eyebrow curved upwards, his insides gleaming. ‘You’re a sneaky bastard.’ 

There’s a cough to his left and Mickey has to drag himself away from Ian, twisting his head towards - who, granted he had forgotten about - Roy. 

‘Don’t wanna ruin the party but you’re holdin’ up the line.’ Roy says cautiously, pulling a face that Mickey genuinely does read as sorry. ‘They’ll have our asses.’ 

Ian snaps his head back to look and sure enough _,_ the line has gotten significantly longer since he got in it. _‘Fuck-_ guess I should go in?’ 

‘Got a break in 20- meet me back out here?’ 

‘Yeah.’ Ian nods, smiling at him once more before ducking into the club, leaving Mickey’s insides buzzing contently. He waves the next person in line to step forward, the corners of his mouth lingering upwards as his eyes glaze over the guy’s ID. 

Is the guy over 21? He couldn’t fucking care less. 

The line dwindles down relatively quickly, Mickey barely giving each ID a second glance, he’s unfocused and he’s loving it. Roy coughs a moment or so after the last person enters through the threshold and Mickey’s pulled out a cigarette. ‘You goin’ introduce me or what?’ 

The cigarette balances on his lip, ‘Huh?’ 

‘Is that…’ Roy says, gesturing with his eyebrows towards the door, ‘You know...that the bride’s brother?’

Mickey doesn’t reply, but smiles around the cigarette as he inhales. 

‘That’s the fuckin’ bride’s brother isn’t it?- I’m right, aren’t I? _’_ Roy’s face breaks into a wide grin, taking his silence as confirmation, his eyes glinting. A hot flush of embarrassment runs through Mickey’s gut, but he breathes it out in an exhale of smoke. 

‘So… how did that happen then?’ 

‘Just happened.’ 

Roy shakes his head, clearly not buying into Mickey’s avoidance bullshit, ‘Don’t give me that _just happened_ crap, I wanna know the details, the who went after who- _._ ’ 

‘You’re shit outta luck then.’ Mickey quips, shrugging as he waves someone forward and Roy flips him off, laughing. 

Ian comes out a few minutes later, slipping outside casually and Mickey could probably place a bet that he timed it exactly for 20 minutes - which makes him happier than he’d ever care to admit. 

‘Hey.’ Ian says, he’s slightly sweaty from the warmth of the club and Mickey wants to run his hands down his chest, ‘Break?’ 

Roy nudges his ribs and Mickey has to stop himself from kicking him behind the kneecap. 

‘Yeah- one sec.’ Mickey with a throaty sigh, knowing he wouldn't hear the end of it if he skips this, ‘Ian, this is Roy. Roy, this is Ian.’ 

‘Good to meet you, Roy.’ Ian says, shaking Roy’s eager outstretched hand. 

‘Oh you don’t fuckin’ know how good it is to meet _you-’_

‘And we’re leaving.’ Mickey cuts him off, wrapping his fingers around Ian’s wrist and pulling him away. ‘Be back in a bit.’ 

‘Take all the time in the fuckin’ world!’ Roy calls, he’s insufferable but sweet, and Mickey flips him off. 

They’re barely halfway down the block when Ian pushes him down an alley and presses him up against the brick wall, his mouth latching onto his, making Mickey groan hungrily. Their coats make everything a little more complicated and bulky but it’s wet, messy, and their teeth clack together a few times and neither one of them want to stop. 

‘How long have you got?’ Ian asks breathlessly, moving his mouth away and up the side of his face, his tongue trailing along his short stubble. 

He gulps, lips wet and breath raspy, ‘20 minutes, maybe, 25 at a _push-’_

He’s cut off by his own moan falling out of his throat as Ian sucks right below his jaw, his head knocking back against the wall to give him better access. 

‘Anywhere we can go from here?’ Ian says, his voice hot against his skin between kisses. ‘Fuckin’ freezing out.’ 

‘Uh, _fuck-_ there’s a bar round the corner.’ Mickey suggests, his hands gripping Ian’s hair as he licks but neither one of them move and Mickey’s fingers slip underneath his sweater and dance at Ian’s belt because _fuck_ _it,_ it’s not like they’ve never fucked in a public place before. Ian’s hand wraps around his at his zipper and Mickey’s dick hardens in anticipation, he _wants_ this, he _gets_ this- 

A shrill ring of a cell phone echoes through the alleyway and stills Ian’s hands, their eyes meet briefly and he thinks for a second that Ian’s going to stop to answer it but he doesn’t, he instead dips forward and pushes his tongue into his mouth. 

Yes, yes, yes, yes- 

‘Probably Lip forgetting something- I’ll, _fuck_ , I’ll call him back tomorrow.’ Ian breathes when he pulls back, and Mickey’s hands are itching to continue their journey south when the ringing starts up again. ‘Okay, okay, fuck-’ 

Ian groans, stepping back and wipes the back of his hand against his mouth before pulling his phone out of his back pocket, his eyes going wide when he looks at the screen. 

_‘What?_ ’ Mickey asks breathlessly, his stomach dropping forcefully but he can’t work out if it’s at the sudden change of expression on Ian’s face or the blood rushing to his dick, ‘Ian- what is it?’ 

‘It’s someone from my EMT job- I’ve gotta take this.’ He kisses Mickey’s forehead, ‘It’ll be just a sec.’ 

Mickey nods and swallows the quickly forming lump in his throat as he watches Ian back away down the other end of the alley. The conversation seems light and Mickey doesn’t want to pry too much so he shifts his focus to Ian’s ass and his long legs as he paces. 

Fuck, he’s gorgeous. He’s gorgeous and he’s his. 

Finally. 

The last few days have felt like the start of… something - like things for him are finally clicking back into action after years of disuse and neglect, dusty and decaying, but somewhat still salvageable. For the first time in years Mickey’s finally fucking excited for the future, and it’s terrifying and makes his hands shake in ways he can’t control but he can’t _wait_ to make up for lost time.

He’s lost in it, the idea of _them_ so it takes him a second longer or so to notice he can no longer hear Ian’s voice echoing down the alley. He lifts his head up and glances in his direction, his heart lurching up his throat at the sight of Ian squatting down against the wall and his head hanging in his hands. 

‘Yo- you good? Ian?’ Mickey calls, keeping his voice steady but Ian doesn’t answer him so he kicks off the wall and walks over, ‘What’s up?’ 

Ian looks up at him, and everything starts to sink because his face is _so_ pale and his eyes are wet- 

‘What’s going on?’ He asks seriously, dropping down to Ian’s level with shaking hands, ‘What is it?’ 

‘They need me back.’ 

The air leaves his lungs, falling out in a swift punch to the gut. 

_‘What?_ ’ He says, his voice trembling and there’s nothing but the sound of blood rushing in his ears. 

‘Chicago.’ 

‘What- what do you mean?’ 

‘That was my manager... I’ve been called back to work.’ Ian says, his hands shaking and Mickey wants to take them in his own and press them to his chest but he can’t fucking move. ‘They need me to start the day after tomorrow.’ 

And just like that, the curtain falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the lovely feedback on the last chapter, i hope you're all staying safe and keeping indoors. 
> 
> i'm over at my [twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian) if you'd like to yell at me (as well as oforamuse on tumblr). 
> 
> comments, kudos and any sort of feedback if you enjoyed it (or hated it) is always greatly appreciated. 
> 
> xoxo


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! apologises for this almost being 2 weeks, i never wanted it to take that long but this lockdown has been... a challenge.
> 
> big love to the discord for constant support - i love you all a lot. my friends have some wonderful wips out right now, please go check them out! [michelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statichearts/pseuds/statichearts), [vic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredavatar/pseuds/tiredavatar) and [fiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningHaski/pseuds/LightningHaski)! 
> 
> thank you to michelle especially for reading this chapter over for me <3 
> 
> enjoy!

_‘What?’_

Mickey hears the word fall out, but he doesn’t feel himself say it. 

There’s nothing in his ears except the rushing of blood. 

Ian looks at him, there's wet lines down his cheeks that glint from the street lights and Mickey wants to wipe them away but he can’t, he can’t do fucking anything. He can’t move, he can’t think. ‘Chicago… I have to be there in two days I-’ 

Chicago. Chicago. Chicago. 

Something snaps inside him and floods his chest, his heart, his gut. He tenses. ‘Fuckin’ heard that bit- _two_ days?’ 

Ian runs his hands down his face, ‘They need emergency cover, there was no one else they could call-’ 

‘But you’re here.’ He says through clenched teeth, and he knows he’s grasping at straws but it falls out of him before he can stop it. 

‘I know.’

‘You’re _here_.’ He says again, and Mickey hates how fucking _weak_ his voice sounds, his throat burns with it. 

‘I know I’m fucking _here_.’ Ian says, his voice breaking and it stabs Mickey in the gut. He stands up and pushes himself off of the wall, ‘The fuck am I supposed to do?’ 

‘I don’t know.’ 

_‘Fuck_ , Mickey.’ Ian runs his hands through his hair, and begins to pace up and down the alley.

Mickey’s hands shake, and he doesn’t know what to fucking do with them because everything feels like it’s caving in. His breath catches in his throat, but he can’t _think_ to pull together a coherent sentence,‘I don’t know- tell them you can’t go, tell them- you’re dead- you fuckin’ killed someone, or something.’ 

Ian scoffs and throws him an irritated look, making Mickey feel even more fucking helpless - what does he expect him to say when it feels like someone has poured cement down his throat?

‘You’re not fuckin’ helping.’ Ian says, teeth gritted and voice gruff, ‘Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ ’ 

‘What the fuck do you want me to say?’ Mickey yells, his voice echoing off the alleyway’s brick walls. 

‘Not _that!_ ’ Ian says, his arms spread out wide in frustration and Mickey doesn’t know what to fucking do. He stops, his hands come up to his face, ‘Chicago- _fuck_ , I’m gonna have to go-’ 

He needs to get out of here, he needs to get away. 

‘Going back to work.’ He turns, but Ian grabs his shoulder twisting him back round, his fingers dig into his skin. 

_‘Mickey-’_ He pleads, and Mickey wants to give it to him but he doesn’t fucking know what he needs or how to do it. ‘Listen to me-’ 

‘Fuck this-’ 

‘I don’t fuckin’ know what I’m going to do-’ Ian’s saying words but Mickey can’t hear anything except white noise, and he hates the way Ian’s face is twisted right now he he doesn’t know _what to do_. 

‘Go home, Gallagher.’ 

‘Mickey, let’s talk about this-’ 

_‘Go._ ’ 

He shoves Ian away and turns. 

As soon as Ian is out of sight and he’s rounded the corner, Mickey already feels like an idiot - though his instilled need to uphold his pride keeps him from turning back. He’s a mess and he needs to get his head together because _Ian has to go back to Chicago._ Fuck _._

Being with Ian is the only thing he’s ever truly _wanted_ in life and it was dangled teasingly in front of him, the possibility of _forever_ finally being in arms reach, but of course, it was too good to be true. 

That’s how it’s been his entire life, why would now be any different?

Fuck. 

Mickey sends his fist flying out onto the closest brick wall. Everything is too fucking much and he needs it _out_ . Pain ricochets up his arm and to his shoulder, his knuckles sting from broken skin. He does it again, and again, and _again_ until blood drips down his wrist and his bones feel like they may break, but he doesn’t care. 

He _just_ got Ian back. 

And now he has to say goodbye again. 

He leans against the wall, his forehead tipped to the sky and lets himself sink to the floor. He knows it must look pathetic, head hung and bloodied hands, but he’s too wrecked and wrung out by it all to care. 

Ian hasn’t followed him. 

Ian hasn’t followed him and he doesn’t know if that makes him feel even worse or any better because he’s just _floating_ right now and the only thing he feels is the sting of broken skin. 

Roy pulls a face when he stalks back up to the club, his throbbing fist cradled in the other hand. 

He almost does a double take, ‘Fuck’s up with you, Chicago?- where’s your boy?’ He asks, craning his head above the line of people waiting as if to make a point of looking for him. 

‘Doesn’t matter.’ He mutters, rigidly planting himself back in his position next to him. His bloody hand screams at him, and he shoves it into his pocket. 

‘You guys get into a fight or something?’ Roy says. Mickey can hear the careful caution in his voice, testing the waters, and it digs under his skin painfully. His eyes flicker down to Mickey’s hands. Something darker crosses his face - Mickey knows what he’s thinking and he hates it. 

‘I just said it doesn’t fuckin’ matter so get the fuck off of my _dick_.’ He spits angrily, and Roy’s expression twists, he’s hurt and Mickey feels even more like a piece of shit. ‘Sorry.’ 

_Great_. 

He wants to go home, go to bed and sleep for a fucking year. 

A group of young women step up, the majority of them clearly underage but they can each produce some form of valid ID so he doesn’t care enough to put up a fight. He’s grateful for the momentary breather from everything, but he can feel Roy’s eyes boring into the side of his face. He knows he’ll eventually have to stop stalling things, and once the women enter the club, there’s an intake of breath and he braces himself. 

‘Mickey…’ Roy starts. 

‘I didn’t fuckin’ _hit_ him, we don’t fuckin’ do that-’ Mickey says, the neglected _anymore_ sits sourly on his tongue because every single day he’s reminded of the shit he used to pull and it’s a miracle that Ian even still looks at him, ‘I punched the fuckin’ wall, okay?’ 

Except he did hit him. 

He hit him so many fucking times as a kid and thinking about every single one of them makes him want to scream. 

‘Okay.’ Roy says civilly but with a tone that Mickey knows there’s more coming. He wants to take him by the shoulders and tell him to _back the fuck down_ in the nicest way possible but he stops himself, ‘Do… you wanna talk about it?’

‘No.’ Mickey snaps, and he doesn’t, he doesn’t want to talk to fucking anyone. He just wants everything to _pause_ for a moment so he can put his fucking head back together. 

_‘Easy_ , brother.’ Roy says, and the sharp edge in his voice makes Mickey’s fists curl. 

None of this is fucking easy. 

Having Ian back in his life for _one_ fucking week before everything being turned upside down again isn’t fucking easy. 

He let himself get too caught up in having Ian in his life again, in his arms, in his bed, that he forgot the big fucking fact that Ian doesn’t actually live here. 

He lives in Chicago. Where he belongs. Where he’s always belonged. 

Chicago… the place where Mickey ran from and escaped, where he swore he wouldn’t be returning unless it was to _shit_ on his father’s grave. 

And now… what the fuck is he going to do?

‘Hey- _asshole_ you gonna let me in?’ 

Mickey’s snapped back by a pissed looking middle aged man with sunken eyes and slicked back hair. He’s got an angry expression and it instantly makes his skin crawl, reminding him of the greasy perverts he’d see back when Ian was working at the Fairytail. 

‘Don’t get your panties in a fuckin’ twist.’ Mickey bites back, and the guy stumbles to the side, losing his balance on the sidewalk. He’s drunk, Mickey realises, and pretty severely so - yeah, that’s not happening. ‘You know what- you’re not coming in, fuck _off_.’ 

Mickey feels like he’s miles away, he’s cold and heartbroken and the last thing he needs right now is dealing with a drunken asshole who’s probably going to spend the rest of the night creeping on young girls and putting shit in their drinks. 

The guy tries to put a hand on Mickey’s shoulder but he flinches back, ‘Come...on, man- come on, let me in-’ 

He growls and shoves the guy’s grabbing hand away, ‘Do I need to say it again?- Hit the fuckin’ road.’ 

He needs this guy to step the fuck back because he his getting way too close and there’s blood pumping through his veins _begging_ for a reason to be spilled- 

‘You’re- you are not lettin’ me in? You’re a- you’re a fucking dick!’ The guy slurs his words, and he stinks of cheap vodka that reminds him of Terry, that house and his fucking childhood of no love, no light, no _fucking_ life-

Mickey doesn’t think about it, not even for a goddamn second, and he sends his forehead flying into the bridge of the other guy’s nose. There’s a crack, a rush of energy and then suddenly...everything is chaos. 

Fists fly one after the other, and Mickey doesn’t know where his hits end and the other guy’s begin but there’s a smack against his jaw that sends his head snapping back. Another guy launches himself at him too - _the douchebag’s friend_ , he considers, but the thought’s interrupted by a sharp punch to his ribs and blood trickling down from his nose. Roy’s fingers dig into his biceps and he’s whispering in his ear, telling him to _back down and shake it off, come on Chicago_ \- but all Mickey can see is red, Terry and all the fucking shit he went through as a kid. It’s like someone lit a fire in his gut and it won’t stop burning until he’s scorched everything to the fucking ground. He elbows back sharply, forcing Roy’s grip to loosen and he sends a kick into the other guy’s stomach. He suddenly gets yanked back, his throat constricting with the pull of his coat. He’s pushed up against the wall, his head smacks back against the brick. 

‘Someone’s gonna call the fuckin’ cops, Mickey- get the fuck inside _now_.’ Roy all but growls and shoves him in the direction of the door - of course Mickey had to get into a fight after telling Roy that they don’t hit each other, that’s just his fucking luck. He must look like a fucking violent maniac. His entire face throbs, and he thinks he might’ve broken a bone in the hand he had already beaten to shreds. 

The drunk guy spits blood out onto the sidewalk, Mickey has to force himself to not jump back into it, ‘He’s fucking crazy-’ 

Roy’s palms are flat against Mickey’s back as he forces him through the threshold, ‘Shut the _fuck_ up.’ Roy snaps, and pushes Mickey firmly into the sweaty crowd. For the second time in one night, he shoulders his way through the mass of sweaty, gyrating people, but luckily no one is paying attention to the bloodied up bouncer with a shattered heart. He kicks the bathroom door open forcefully and it bangs against the wall loudly - it’s empty other than a guy washing his hands whose face pales at the sight of a gory looking Mickey when he catches a look at him in the mirror. 

‘The fuck are you lookin’ at?’ He spits, and the pussy _runs_ before he’s even got the sentence fully out, the door slamming behind him. Mickey rolls eyes - _fuck_ , it hurts to even do that, and locks it. He’s safe, at least for now. 

He stares at himself in the mirror. He’s a fucking sight to see. 

How the _fuck_ did today turn out like this? Was it really a mere few hours ago he was sitting around that table in Chinatown with the Gallaghers? Less than an hour since Ian _surprised_ him at work and, in that moment, Mickey felt like he could fly?

There’s blood smeared from his nose down to his jaw, his wrist fucking hurts and his knuckles are ripped raw. He winces as he turns the tap on, fingers numb and throbbing - he doesn’t think he’s broken them, but he definitely came damn near close. 

It’s been awhile since he’s gotten himself into a fight - not since prison, surprisingly to some. He’s worked hard at keeping his nose clean and staying out of other people’s shit - he didn’t need to be looking for another reason to get thrown behind bars. It hadn’t been easy to avoid trouble, especially having been locked up for so long and suddenly being shoved back out into the unforgiving world he was shaped by. 

Fighting used to be his blueprint. The instruction manual to life handed to him by his father on a silver platter. 

A Milkovich doesn’t cry, a Milkovich fights. 

By the time he hit at least 12 years old, there was nothing that could compare to the adrenaline that pumped through his veins when his fist hit another man's chin, a knee to a groin, a foot to the back of a skull. _No one gives a shit about your feelings_ , his dad once said, and he believed it. 

Then he learnt to fight and everything that raged inside of him, muted and repressed, came spilling out in that moment of heated violence. The love, the anger, the sadness, all the feelings he was taught to bottle up and shove under the rug had a single moment of release. He became addicted and chased the high he felt, picking unnecessary brawls with anyone who looked at him the wrong way because he was branded a thug and that’s what thugs were supposed to do. 

Then suddenly Ian came along and his feelings became a lot more complicated. 

But apparently, old habits die hard and he doesn’t feel any better. He feels like shit. 

He lets the water run cold, cups as much of it in his hands as he can and splashes it over his throbbing face. His hands shake so water runs down his sleeves and under his coat but doesn’t do anything about it, choosing to keep his focus on the blood mixing with the water as it swirls down the drain. 

He suddenly feels like he’s going to vomit. 

_Fuck-_

He barely makes it into the cubicle in time, his knees smack against the hard floor as he launches himself at the toilet bowl. His expensive Chinatown dinner comes right back up and he dry heaves afterwards once it’s all out, his eyes leaking from the strain. His mouth is stale and bitter, and it stings from the acid forcing its way up from his stomach. 

He hates the taste of bile. It’s the taste of his childhood. 

His head drops against the toilet bowl which he knows is fucking _disgusting_ and he regrets it as soon as he does it, but he can’t bring himself to move. The surface is cool against his sweaty forehead and he _needs_ to stay here for a second, he needs that breather. 

He wants Ian. _Fuck_ , he wants Ian. 

He wants Ian so badly he might even throw up his _heart_ , because he’s a _fucking_ pussy and he doesn’t want it anymore. 

He runs a clammy hand through his matted hair, unsticking it from his forehead. It takes a moment, but he manages to pull himself up onto shaky feet, leaning himself against the wooden cubicle wall for support. It’s been a long, long time since he felt this _shit_. 

He can’t remember exactly but he’s pretty certain the last time he threw up was in the harsh and unforgiving metal toilet in his prison cell. It was horribly public, his cellmate staring at him from his bed whilst he hunched over it for hours after _yeah Mick, I’ll wait_ \- 

Dead eyes, heartbreak, orange jumpsuits. The sting of a shitty, infected tattoo. 

His stomach aches, and he’s not sure whether it’s from the memory or everything else going on right now or a combination of the two because his brain is just _that_ fucked up. 

‘Shit.’ He lets his head lull backwards and looks upwards at the same fluorescent lights he’d observed only an hour before under completely different circumstances. His eyes catch the movement of a moth as it flies close to the bright, almost blinding light. It gives off that low, electric buzzing noise and it rings in his ears. He watches as the moth gets too close, clueless and fascinated, and manages to get itself stuck between the bulb and the casing. It’s wings flutter against the plastic in a fit of panic once it realises what it’s done, trapped forever.

Yeah. He knows how that feels. 

He eventually has to draw his eyes away because the lights begin to add to his already pounding headache and he really doesn’t need to watch the sucker succumb to it’s inevitable death. He can at least appreciate the wicked irony of it all though, watching from a distance. He knows what it’s like being trapped inside something so seemingly harmless yet ultimately deadly - he grew up that way. 

He wonders if anyone ever cared for him like that - if there were any outsiders looking into his life with his _father_ and thinking, _don’t go towards the light kid, you won’t come back_. No adults in his life gave a shit, that’s for sure. The system didn’t care. DCFS handed him back into his father’s _reformed_ arms willingly every single time he pretended to clean up his act. They didn’t give a shit, no matter the amount of new scars, burn marks or scratches on his skin that would appear with every home visit. 

Ian did though. Ian saw him flying towards his father’s light, directly into his trap of a life riddled with self loathing and repression and yanked him down by the shoulders. Ian… _saved_ him, and he has to stop himself from cringing at the thought as soon as it enters his head because he never thought he could be so fucking _corny_ but God, it’s true. 

Whether he knows it or not, Ian saved him. 

And now he’s leaving him. Unless...

Someone bangs on the bathroom door, and then an angry _‘Some of us need to fuckin’ piss!’_ is shouted through the wood. 

Back to life, he guesses.

‘Open the fuckin’ door you selfish _prick-’_

‘Chill your fuckin’ tits.’ He barks, and his throat feels like someone’s scrubbed it raw with harsh sand paper. The banging continues, and Mickey’s fingers ache to _punch_ again. He yells, ‘If you don’t fuckin’ quit it, I’m goin’ come out there and rip your _fuckin-’_

It stops. 

Mickey waits a second before kicking the cubicle door open and stomping over to the main door. 

He unlocks it and yanks it open. There’s no one there, obviously, because people are too fucking _weak_ to stand their ground and it makes him even more irritated than before - the world is really testing him tonight. 

He shoves his way back through the dance floor, it’s thinned out slightly since his last journey through but the music is just as loud. He stumbles out onto the street, and for once there isn’t a line of people waiting to go in and Roy’s leaning against the wall having a smoke. 

Roy leans forward when he sees him and throws the cigarette down onto the sidewalk, ‘You good man? get out of here-’

‘Roy-’

‘Go sleep it off-’ Mickey opens his mouth to reply but Roy stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder, ‘I can cover you here, man.’ 

Mickey jerks his chin with a nod, hating that he’s fucking relieved that Roy’s letting him leave and it makes him _weak_. ‘Thanks.’ 

He walks slowly to the subway, and thinks about stopping into the bodega on the corner to buy a beer or some smokes, but finds himself walking straight past it. 

There’s maintenance on the lines going into Manhattan so it takes at least an hour longer than it should to get back to Harlem - just his fucking luck, _thank you universe_ . He sits in the train carriage, cradling his aching fist and his headache pounding as the train thrums along the tracks. There’s an old guy who sits opposite on his train that reminds him of someone he’d see at The Alibi regularly and it makes his skin crawl. Ever since Ian mentioned going back to Chicago, he’s seeing and feeling it’s looming presence fucking _everywhere_. He can’t shake that asshole earlier reminding him of Terry. He closes his eyes, but winces as he rests his head against the window, the vibrations of the car’s movement knocking his brain around his skull. 

By the time he gets to his block, the early morning garbage men are out clearing the sidewalk and the streets are starting to show signs of life. The lights are off in the laundromat underneath his building - it won’t be long until everything kicks off there, though - and he twists his key in the lock. He walks slowly up the few flights of stairs, and not for the first time cursing the fact Mandy decided to get a place without an elevator, his knees aching as he climbs, both hands gripping the railing. 

Mickey presses his forehead against the wood of his door for a moment, steadying his breathing, before turning his key in the lock and pushing it open. He doesn’t know if he wants a beer or to just go to sleep, but it’s 4 _fucking_ am and his head hurts enough already. 

He’s a fool, truly, to believe that he would be allowed one thing, _one thing_ , to call his own. 

The apartment is dark and empty as he stumbles through. He tries to keep quiet for Mandy’s sake - since they’re now in this weird plateaued ground, but everything reminds him of Ian and their last few days, his head spins with it. The counter, where they sat and had their breakfast _just_ this fucking morning, the couch where they’d fallen asleep, the wall where Ian had pressed him up _and-_

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-_

How did everything turn to shit so quickly? 

He walks into his room, his chest heavy, his bones heavy and his face fucking hurts. 

He flicks on the light switch, ready to lie his injured face down and _sleep-_

Ian’s there.

Ian’s there and it makes him jump out of his skin, his back slamming against the door and pushing it shut. 

_‘Jesus_ \- fuck, you scared the shit out of me.’ Mickey swallows, his heart halfway up his throat at the sight of Ian sitting on his bed, back lent against the wall and his arms resting on bent knees. Ian laughs dejectedly, it’s low and breathy, his shoulders drop with the release. Mickey straightens up. 

His eyes are red and swollen, and Mickey itches to take his face into his calloused hands and cradle it to his chest but he doesn’t move. After everything tonight, he _really_ doesn’t trust his hands.

 _‘Hey.’_ Ian’s voice is quiet and held, clearly treading the line between them with caution and Mickey hates the fact he even drew one. He never wants Ian to have to tread a line. 

‘What you doin’ here.’ Mickey with control, embarrassment at the way he acted earlier sitting low in his gut, he shouldn’t have asked Ian to go - that was stupid, he can admit that now, but he was at his wits end earlier. 

‘I… there’s nowhere else I wanted to be.’ 

He sucks in a deep breath. His head is throbbing and although it’s felt like he’s been wading through fog for the last hour or so, it clears, dripping away quickly and the only thing left in his head is the image of a 15 year old Ian standing at his door saying something similar. 

_I need to see you. I don’t know where else to go._

Neither does he. 

He can’t stop himself. Mickey lurches forward clumsily, practically tripping over his own feet and takes Ian’s face in his hands and presses his mouth against his. Ian’s face is wet, Mickey can feel it under his thumbs and he hates it. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Ian says, pulling away and resting his forehead against Mickey’s chin, it’s tender from the impact of the other guy’s fist and he flinches back instinctively. Ian leans back, his fingers coming up to trail the sharp edge of his jaw, he frowns. 

‘What happened?’ Ian swallows, and Mickey watches his eyes flicker across his face and take in the bruised smattered and reddened skin. 

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Mickey says and he’s exhausted. He brings up a hand to rub down his face, it hurts but the feeling of being closely observed under a microscope becomes overwhelmingly too much. 

‘Mick…’ Ian presses, the shake in his voice causing more pain in his chest than the purple blemishes quickly forming on his skin. 

He sighs, ducking his head to avoid Ian’s pointed attempt at eye contact. ‘Didn’t know what else to fuckin’ do.’ 

‘You at least got a couple of punches in with the other guy?’ He says with a sad chuckle, it’s an ill attempt at lightening the mood but Mickey appreciates it anyway. Doesn’t make him feel less like an idiot, though. 

‘Yeah.’ He says, because he doesn’t know what else to say and it hangs there awkwardly for a moment. Ian shifts himself, allowing himself to have a better look at Mickey’s face. 

‘Did you clean them?’ Ian asks, his eyebrows pulled together and his face twisted in concern. 

‘I-’ He starts, but pauses when Ian’s eyes narrow. 

‘Come on, up, up-’ Ian wraps his fingers around Mickey’s bicep and he lets himself be pulled up to his feet. Ian trails his hand down his arm and tangles his fingers with his and leads him towards his bathroom. Mickey follows, because he’ll always follow. 

‘You have a first aid kit?’ Ian asks, planting Mickey down on the toilet seat and twisting towards the cupboard under the sink. 

Mickey gives him a _‘you’re really asking that?’_ look and Ian drops his shoulders. 

Ian rolls his eyes, ‘Doesn’t hurt to _ask-_ I’m gonna go check my bag.’ He says with a quirked smile. 

Mickey wants to tell him not to leave him there, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do with another moment alone, but he bites his tongue and nods. 

He runs his hand through Mickey’s hair, and thumbs at the nape of his neck before pulling his hand away and ducking out of the room. 

Mickey can hear him rustling in his bag in the other room and he has to look up towards the ceiling because it makes his heart ache. No wonder he’s an EMT, he’s got the fucking _soul_ for it. 

He has to blink back the sting in his eyes, and counts to ten. By the time he opens his eyes, Ian’s back with a few things in his hands and his eyebrows drawn in concern.

‘Take these.’ Ian holds his palm out with two small pills in the middle. Mickey eyes them suspiciously but picks them up nonetheless. He holds one between his thumb and forefinger, raising it up towards the light like he’s inspecting it. 

‘You tryin’ to push your meds on me?’ He says with a light tone, looking up at him with raised eyebrows. Ian throws back his own unimpressed look and Mickey shrugs, chucking them into his mouth and swallowing them dry. He grimaces as they go down stiffly, ‘Fuckin’ gross.’ 

‘Tylenol.’ Ian says plainly, and Mickey tips his chin towards the other thing in his hand. 

‘What’s that?’ 

‘Antiseptic wipes- don’t want you to get an infection or anything.’ He shrugs, because of course the nerd would carry them around daily, but something in Mickey’s chest twinges because he doesn’t think he’s ever used fucking _antiseptic_ on any of his injuries before. ‘You got a washcloth?’ 

‘Over there.’ Mickey grunts with a forehead jerk towards the ones hanging on a hook next to the bath and he watches as Ian plucks it off and runs it in the water. 

‘This might be cold- _warning_.’ Ian says with a quiet laugh, and the corners of Mickey’s mouth itch to curve upwards as he holds back a flinch from the cold, wet cloth being pressed to his eyebrow. He hadn’t even realised he’d been hit there but apparently he had - must’ve been the other guy’s ring or something. Rich assholes. ‘They got you good.’ 

Mickey scoffs, ‘They _tried_.’ 

Ian leans in close as he works gently over Mickey’s injured face, wiping away the remnants of any more blood from broken skin. Mickey’s impressed, turns out Ian wasn’t lying about being good at this EMT shit. They sit in silence for a few minutes whilst Ian works on his face, and Mickey lets his lull shut. Having someone take care of you after so many years of either _not caring_ or patching himself up is strangely peaceful. 

He feels Ian freeze and his eyes flutter open. Ian stares at him and his face is torn, clearly whilst Mickey had been feeling peace, Ian had been feeling something… _else_. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Ian says softly, his eyes are wet and Mickey hates it. He clears his throat, ‘The fuck did you go picking fights for?’ 

‘Not your fault.’ Mickey mutters, hating that Ian knows him well enough to know that he _needed_ to express himself through his fists. 

Ian runs his free hand through his hair, ‘No but I-’

‘Not your fuckin’ fault.’ Mickey looks at him seriously, begging Ian to understand that he doesn’t blame him because none of this is down to him. He can’t control being called back to work and he sure as hell can’t control what Mickey does with his fists. He brings his hand up to cup the side of Ian’s face, thumbing along his stubble. Ian leans forward and kisses his forehead softly. 

He was taught as a kid that love was told through fists, raised voices and cigarette burns on pale arms. He was taught by the cartoons he very rarely got to watch and teachers that didn’t really care that _your family loves you_ _because family is family_ , and for so many years Mickey believed them. He was wrong though, they were all fucking wrong. 

Love is Ian Gallagher fixing him up with a wet cloth and a kiss to his forehead.

Ian pauses, ‘What are we gonna do?’ 

Mickey knows that they have to have this conversation, he hates it, but it’s important. 

He still hates it though. 

He swallows, shifting his gaze to meet Ian’s eyes as leans in close with the antiseptic wipe. ‘You gonna go back?’ 

Ian sighs, clearly just as burnt out as he is. How has the last few hours treated him? 

He leans back on his heels, ‘I… I have to Mick.’ 

‘Alright.’ Mickey says, a lump forming around the words in his throat because he knows he has to, he _knows_ that. It hurts anyway. Ian’s life here was never meant to be permanent, they’d just both… forgotten that. 

‘It’s my job.’ 

‘I _know_.’ It comes out harsher than he likes, and the way Ian stops for a second before continuing his movements makes him feel like shit. ‘I didn’t... _fuck_ , I didn’t-’ 

‘It’s okay.’ Ian says with a slight edge to his voice. His jaw tenses in a way that Mickey knows he’s trying to control and process something, he used to see it when they were kids when he’d move swiftly away before Ian could kiss him or touch him after sex. It kills him to see it now. 

Ian softens, ‘I told them I was ready to go back soon- stable on my meds and all that. Like a week or so before the wedding, before we… you know. Saw each other. Now they say they need emergency cover...I didn’t think it would come around so quickly.’ 

‘You should go.’ He says, trying really hard for it not to sound as bitter as he feels. He doesn’t want to make Ian feel bad about this - he’s the one that has a proper job, a proper career that _helps_ people. He never wants Ian to feel like that’s a burden. 

Ian pulls away and drops the wipe in the trash by the toilet, before crossing his arms and sitting down on the edge of the bathtub. 

Mickey knows what’s coming. He tenses his jaw, preparing himself. 

Ian looks up at him, ‘What about- you know…us?’ 

It twists in his gut but he can only shrug dismissively, because it’s the safest option right now and he can’t find the words to say _anything_ \- at least the _right_ words that is. 

‘What about us?’ Ian says again, his arms uncrossing themselves and falling to his side. His voice cracks, ‘I just- I _just_ got you back.’

‘I don’t know what you want me to say-’ Mickey starts, he feel’s so fucking _drained -_ emotionally and physically _-_ but he’s cut off by Ian pushing himself off of the tub and standing up swiftly. 

‘Come with me.’ 

‘Yeah- _right_.’ He breathes, dropping his chin to his chest because he _really_ doesn’t need making those kind of jokes right _now-_

‘Come with me.’ Ian says again, and the serious, sharp edge to his voice smacks him right in the stomach, and sends Mickey’s head snapping up to meet him. He swallows down an instinctive, bitter laugh because Ian’s looking at him sincerely, ‘Come back to Chicago with me.’ 

Mickey’s brain thumps against his skull. He swallows, ‘What?’ 

‘Come home with me.’ Ian says, dropping down and pressing his forehead against his, ‘Come on, Mickey…’ 

_Home, home, home, home._

There’s that fucking word again. 

‘I-i’ve got a job, man.’ Mickey tries, even though he’s lying through his teeth and he knows it's a weak defence. He doesn’t give a shit about the job and after the shit he pulled earlier he’s probably fired anyway. ‘I’ve got a place-’ 

‘Have me.’ Ian says and the ground feels like it’s about to fall out from beneath his feet because Ian’s eyes are so open, so raw. He pushes forward, ‘Have _me_ , Mickey.’ 

He wants to, God, he wants to so badly. 

_‘Ian.’_ He breathes, his fingers running along the side of Ian’s jaw. 

‘Please.’ Ian says, and Mickey can’t look away because fuck, he loves this man and at this point there’s _nothing_ he wouldn’t do for him, but going back to Chicago? _Shit_. That’s a lot. That’s _a lot_ a lot. Ian rubs his face, then squares his shoulders and looks at him soberly. ‘I wanna be with you.’ 

There’s a beat. _I want to be with you too_ , he wants to say. 

He can’t be that selfish. 

‘You…’ Mickey takes a deep breath, he has to control his voice because there is a chance he may fucking rip in two when the words come out. ‘You don’t get to be.’ 

Hurt flashes across Ian’s face and Mickey’s hands itch instantly, wanting to pull him in close and kiss his broken expression away but stops himself. He needs to get this out, he needs Ian to understand. He continues, ‘You don’t belong here… you belong back there.’ 

‘I fuckin’ belong with _you_.’ Ian says, and he sounds like a teenage girl but his eyes are rapidly filling up with water and Mickey feels his own quickly following suit so he can’t even bitch him out for it. He blinks quickly, ‘And if I hadn’t wasted so much fucking time-’ 

‘Stop it.’ Mickey says sharply, because they’re not doing that anymore and if he has to listen to Ian tearing himself down over this, he’s gonna lose it. He looks at him seriously, ‘You’re gonna go home- you’re gonna go back there and you’re going to go back to your job. You’re back on your meds, your head’s in the fuckin’ right place. Go save people’s fuckin’ lives. Go _home_.’ 

He watches the muscles in Ian’s jaw tense as he digests his spiel, and Mickey wants to run his arms down his rigid shoulders but ends up half heartedly just resting a hand on his bicep. 

Ian’s hand comes up to rest on top of his, ‘I just- I just wanna be where you are.’ He says tiredly. 

Mickey nods, he gets it. _Hear me Ian_ , he silently begs, _I want that too_. 

‘I love you.’ 

His stomach drops. 

Mickey looks at him, and Ian stares back. 

There’s not an ounce of regret in Ian’s eyes, no _that was a mistake i’m sorry_ , no backtracking and Mickey suddenly realises he’s not _looking_ for it. He doesn’t need to look for it because Ian loves him. Ian loves him and he’s not going to retract that because he doesn’t need to. Because it’s true. 

‘I know.’ Mickey says, surprising himself at how _sure_ about it he feels. Ian _loves_ him and for the first time in a _long_ time, he doesn’t feel the creeping shadow of doubt lurking in the back ready to ruin it all. There were many nights in prison where he fell into a deep pool of doubting _everything_ that happened between the two of them. Words said, fucks, kisses - none of them felt real to him anymore. 

He was wrong though, he knows that now. They just needed time. 

‘I love you too.’ He says, because it’s the _easiest_ and most truthful thing in the world. 

He wraps his hand around Ian’s neck and pulls him in for a firm kiss. He doesn’t know what the fuck is going to happen to them, but he _knows_ this. 

_I love you._

‘All good?’ Mickey asks when they break away, leaning into Ian’s hand cupping his jaw. 

_I love you._

Ian smiles warmly and taps the side of his cheek, ‘All patched up here.’ 

_I love you._

Mickey lets his head fall into Ian’s shoulder. He knows the conversation isn’t over but at least he can pretend it is for now because they _love_ each other and that is enough for 5am. 

‘Bed?’ Ian asks with a nudge and the full body exhaustion sets in almost instantly. He slumps down against Ian. ‘Lets go, you lazy shit.’ 

For the second time that night Ian pulls him up by the arm and leads him through his own apartment. He feels slightly pathetic and attempts to squash down the guilt over Ian taking care of him, he’s too drained to properly think it through. They strip each other off slowly, their movements heavy but gentle, neither man looking for any more than just to _touch_ and _care_ . For once, they’re not losing clothes in the heat of the moment with frantic and needy hands. Their exhaustion is way past that now and there’s an unspoken but mutual agreement that they’re going to bed to just _sleep_ and Mickey can’t even find it in himself to be disappointed because god, that sounds like the greatest plan ever right now. 

They slump down onto the bed, arms instantly finding one another and legs tangling together. Ian rolls them over and Mickey lets himself be led by the movement. Ian tucks himself behind Mickey, his chest pressed snugly against his back and his crotch tucked against his ass. 

He places a kiss at the nape of Mickey’s neck. 

They’re both dead to the world within minutes, lulled to sleep by the comforting rise and fall of each other’s steady breathing. Their day finally ends whilst a new one for Manhattan begins. 

* * *

Mickey wakes up with an abrupt jolt and knows before he opens his eyes that he’s alone. 

He doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know whether alone is good or bad, given the circumstances, so he lets it sit low in his gut. 

He runs a hand over the spot beside him and sheets are cold, he’s been by himself for a few hours it seems. He rolls over to his phone and smiles - Ian must’ve plugged it in, because he definitely didn’t last night and the image sends a warm shot to his stomach. 

The screen tells him it’s just past 3:30pm and he’s got a series of text messages from a few hours prior. 

**12:01pm: from Ian** **  
** **‘Sorry I’m not gonna be there when you wake up’**

 **12:02pm: from Ian** **  
** **‘I wanted to be’**

 **12:02pm: from Ian** **  
** **‘I gotta pack. Come to fiona’s when you wake up?’**

 **12:05pm: from Ian** **  
** **‘I love you’**

He rereads them all about three times and stares at the last one for the longest before letting his phone drop down onto his chest. _I love you_ texts from Ian Gallagher, God, this shit makes them middle school _cheesy_. 

He looks up at the ceiling, he’s already wasted the good part of most of Ian’s last full day in the city and he tries not to let himself feel _too_ awful about it but his stomach still swirls with dread. 

He’s not ready to say goodbye. 

He doesn’t _want_ to say goodbye. 

Is he really considering this?

 _This_. Chicago. Chicago, Illinois. More specifically, Canaryville, Southside. 

The fucking thought of it alone makes him _sick_. 

They’re the streets he was born and raised on - they’re harsh and unforgiving and spat him out into the world with a hard edged shell and the well instilled need to live and do everything by it’s fucking _rules._ He used to love the sharpened edge of it all - anything fucking goes there and that’s the way he liked it. 

Until he didn’t.

He left Chicago because he was reminded constantly every single day about the things he lost and Mandy gave him a way out so he _took_ it. It was the right thing to do then and he doesn’t regret it but… is it the right thing for him now? 

Fuck, he doesn’t know. Everything is too _complicated_ and it feels like he’s been shoved backwards through a shredder. 

There’s a knock at his door, and he looks up. 

Mandy stands awkwardly in his doorway, her arms crossed over her front, ‘Hey.’ 

‘Hi.’ Mickey yawns and rubs at his eyes. She’s still standing there when he opens his eyes again, staring at him with an unreadable expression on her face. He shifts awkwardly under her gaze, and suddenly feels horribly suffocated, _‘Jesus_ , you fuckin’ need somethin’?’ 

‘You gonna go with Ian?’ She says bluntly, and his stomach clenches from her straight forwardness. It feels like someone’s yanked the carpet out from underneath him and he’s teetering on the edge of balance - he stares at her blankly, because fuck knows how she’s caught on so quickly, and she continues, ‘We talked about it before he left.’ 

Oh. Yeah. 

Sometimes he forgets that Mandy is part of Ian’s life too. 

He tries not to let it bother him. 

‘I, i- don’t know.’ He swallows, moving himself to sit up against the headboard to give himself something to do that distracts from the hollow pit forming in his gut. 

‘You should.’ She says, letting her arms fall down to her hips. 

‘Should what?’ He tests, he knows what she is saying but he just needs to _hear_ it be said. He needs it to come from someone else because he doesn’t trust himself. Not with this. 

‘Go with him.’ She says simply, like she’s telling him some big obvious fact he’d been missing out on. Her tone changes, ‘You’d be a fuckin’ idiot not to.’ 

Mickey presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth because he _knows_ that he’d be a fucking idiot not to go. 

‘You should fuckin’ go.’ She says again, her gaze itching into him like a chemical irritant and he presses his palms into his eyes. She scoffs, ‘Don’t be _fuckin’-’_

‘Don’t tell me what to do-’ He snaps, because he _just_ woke up and it’s already too fucking much. 

Mandy rolls her eyes in a way he’s seen her do so many times, ‘Shut up, stop bein’ so fuckin’ stubborn.’ 

‘It’s…’ He says, groaning in frustration because she’s talking about it like it’s not a _big fucking deal_ , like it’s not _everything_ they’ve avoided for years. ‘You know- _Chicago_.’ 

‘There’s nothing here for you, shithead.’ She says, pushing herself off the door frame and turning to go. She pauses, and turns back, ‘Stop pretending like there is.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian) (i apparently make a lot of people cry these days) or oforamuse on tumblr! 
> 
> a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it is highly appreciated (or paragraphs of hate if you didn't) 
> 
> thanks for reading, hopefully see you soon. 
> 
> xoxo


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, it's me. i cannot apologise enough for how long this chapter took to write - i am so sorry! anyways, i hope this almost 12k chapter makes up for it. (i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry!)
> 
> as always, love to [vic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredavatar/pseuds/tiredavatar), [michelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statichearts/pseuds/statichearts), [taylor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boneached/pseuds/boneached) and [fiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningHaski/pseuds/LightningHaski) for being the most supportive friends a girl could ask for. 
> 
> thank you especially to michelle for beta'ing for me <3 
> 
> enjoy!

Mandy leaves and Mickey lets himself lie there for a few minutes longer before he sighs and swings his legs over the side of the bed to pull himself up. He stretches his arms above his head, groaning. His muscles ache, his joints click and pop - last night’s violence echoes in every movement. The sinking feeling of regret hangs heavy. He checks his phone - _3:45pm_ , okay, he can work with that…he can work with that.. _except-_

He doesn’t know when Ian’s flight is.

He pulls up Ian’s last message and quickly hits reply. 

**3:47pm: to Ian  
** **‘U should’ve woken me up.’**

 **3:48pm to Ian  
** **‘Be over soon.’**

He sends them with a shaking thumb and turns his screen off, but makes sure the sound is uncharacteristically _on_. 

Something daunting sinks into his gut and he already feels like shit that he wasted so much time sleeping. Ian’s hours are now on a clock and there’s a countdown ticking down slowly, he can feel it suspended heavily above him. He rubs his eyes tiredly and suppresses the need to blame Ian for slipping out without waking him. He doesn’t blame him - he was a wreck last night and Mickey can be a grumpy dick when running on little sleep, even without the early morning stitched up skin. 

He pads out into the hallway through to the bathroom, his feet sticking sweatily to the cheap wood. 

‘Goin’ out!’ Mandy yells from the kitchen, and he can hear the rattle of jars in the fridge as she slams it’s door shut with her habitual too much force _\- it’s gonna fuckin break if you keep shoving it like that, Mandy,_ he’s told her many times before. 

‘Okay.’ Mickey chokes out a strangled reply, distracted by his reflection in the mirror on the wall above the sink. The front door slams. He’s alone. 

The bruises have set into his skin overnight and he’s sporting a particularly bad shiner on the left side of his jaw. He shoves his tooth brush inside of his mouth, carefully dodging the side of his face that _aches_ and he makes a mental list. 

Well, he makes two. 

New York has: 

_\- His job.  
_\- His apartment.  
\- It’s not Chicago.  
\- Mandy.  
\- That bodega down the street that serves a really good bacon, egg and cheese at 3am. 

Chicago has:

_\- Ian._

Okay, there’s a couple of other things on the list too but nothing is more important to him or matters than that one bullet point. It’s the only thing in his life that’s fucking _clear_ to him. 

It’s not even that he particularly _loves_ New York. Sure, he likes it and it’s _the city that never sleeps_ and all that crap, but is it home? He screws up his eyes tightly, the broken skin on his face twinges, and tries to picture _home_ and New York, and everything he’d feel if he left it all behind. 

He comes up blank. 

If someone held a gun to his temple and told him he needed to leave within 24 hours, what are the things about it he really, truly, would miss? 

He spits into the sink and examines the list. 

His job? Though he’s never had a proper direction for a career, being a club’s security guard was never at the top of his list - that’s for sure. He hasn’t heard that his bosses caught wind of his little escapade last night, but he’s certain it won’t be long until he does. He doesn’t really give a fuck - Roy’s the only thing about that place that makes it even remotely bearable. 

He’s actually made a friend, Mickey guesses, which freaks him out slightly because _relationships_ are hard for him and friendships possibly even more so. The only person in the world who Mickey can hand on heart consider a _friend_ is Ian - maybe Sandy too - but they don’t count. His relationships with other people have always been _intense_ \- the fiery heat he feels for Ian, dark rage for his father, passive discomfort and disgust around his siblings - he’s never done _casual_ relationships. 

The Gallaghers almost came close, but he lost that. 

So how the _fuck_ is he supposed to navigate his friendship with Roy - something he didn’t even know he was creating until it was done - if he decides to leave? Does he call him up? Tell him over a beer and a burger? He’s never had to say goodbye to a friend, really, because the only ones he’s ever known have said goodbye to him. 

So as strange as it is to admit it, he’ll miss Roy. Fuck their job, but Roy’s alright. 

His apartment? It’s a shitty fourth floor walk up with consistently leaking faucets and no working air conditioning. The landlord doesn’t do jack shit but it’s at least clean of demons and father figures lurking in dark corners. Having a space that’s _his_ has been nice, but…it’s never really been _his,_ has it? Mandy chose it, he barely spends anytime there anyway, and his half of it still remains relatively unfurnished. He had always told himself that he was going to get round to it someday, that he was just waiting for a weekend off to go down to Goodwill or to browse Craigslist - but was that the truth?

He isn’t so sure anymore. 

Has he always known deep down that this life here, New York and it all, was temporary? 

Mandy? Sure, they’ve come over this weird _hill_ in the last few days but Mickey isn’t kidding himself - he knows she’s isn’t either. Their relationship isn’t much more than that and yeah, maybe he should be putting more effort into making it _something_ but the possibility of it isn’t enough to keep him here. 

Ian makes him _selfish_. Ian makes him _want_ to be selfish. 

He’s had very few opportunities in his life to be selfish. 

Regardless, it still leaves the giant fucking pink elephant in the room. 

Chicago. 

_Chicago._

Who knew that a city filled with less than 3 million people could feel so much _more_ daunting than New York’s 8.3?

It’s so much more than just moving back to where he grew up. It’s the decision to finally say, _yes_ , I’m back, I’m here and I’m facing everything you once were to me. 

His few years he spent there whilst on parole were so mundane, so hidden and confusing that it barely feels like he’s even been to the city in almost 9 years. He packed everything into little boxes, taped them shut, and shoved it all to the back of his mind. The rough streets, the familiar faces, the sounds of the Southside. They’ve been collecting dust ever since he got off that bus at the Port Authority and he really isn’t sure if he’s ready to unpack it all. 

Mickey knows that this has to be it, this decision - he can’t go back to Chicago and suddenly decide that it’s _too_ much and want to turn back.

He can’t get all the way to Chicago only for Ian to decide that this isn’t what he wants. That _Mickey_ isn’t what he wants.

It’ll break him irreparably, he knows that for sure.

Mickey presses his fingers into his eyes because his head hurts and he’s sick of everything in his life coming with so many fucking terms and conditions. 

Everything he’s ever wanted has always come with _baggage_. 

His father’s love - for lack of a better word, Mickey isn’t fucked up enough to believe it was anything close to _love -_ came with conditions. A _good job, son_ didn’t come without a few bruises and blood spilled. There was no short flash warmth without a sharp stab of cold. 

Being a _Southsider_ came with conditions - there was a rule book he had to abide by, things he had to _do,_ a role he had to _fill_ otherwise he was even more of a fucking social pariah than he already was simply by being a Milkovich. It wasn’t until he was far away from the Southside and everything it stood for, that the implications of this actually sunk in for him. The weight he had been bearing by having so many titles on his shoulders, _Southsider_ , _Milkovich_ , _thug_. They were so much more than just being proud of your home and your identity - they were a poison that seeped into his veins and set itself into his bones, leaving him brittle and weak underneath his hardened shell. 

Being a teenager falling in love for the first time came with conditions - he couldn't love who he wanted to unless he set himself on fire and let his whole world burn. 

And he did. 

He let everything crumble down to the ground until there was nothing left standing except the burnt ash at his feet. He made that choice, he told those conditions to go fuck themselves but it wasn’t _enough_. Mickey was never fucking _enough_ and there was no pleasing the universe once it sealed his fate. 

Being free to make decisions without sparing a thought to the domino effect that would ripple out afterwards was a foreign concept, he didn’t get the privilege of being _careless_ until he got on that damn bus and took himself out East. He slowly learnt that he was able to speak to who he wanted, _fuck_ who he wanted, fight who he wanted and no one gave a shit. 

New York was supposed to be that place for him, the place where no one knew him and nothing was expected from him. It was for a while. Except now it’s got the same old fucking _conditions_ because his city of freedom has become riddled with all the things he’s tried so tirelessly to leave behind. 

He wants to stay in New York and keep as far away from Chicago as humanly possible? He has to break his heart once again and spend another decade trying to repair it.

He wants to have Ian back in his life permanently? He has to give up that safety net of not being _known_ here and go back to being Mickey _Milkovich_ , Southside born and raised. 

Milkovich. The name that carries so many burdens. The name that everyone knows - Terry worked tirelessly to make sure of that. It burns itself into his skin perhaps more so than anything else. He can deal with being labelled as a Southsider or a thug, or even that _gay_ bouncer- 

He was taught to wear _Milkovich_ as a badge of pride. It was a way of telling people, fuck you, we know who we are - who the fuck are you? It was the name teachers hesitated on when doing roll call, the one you could count on for a beat down and a cracked rib, the one drunkenly yelled out across a loud bar and spilled beer. 

It’s not that Mickey is ashamed of his name per say, quite the opposite in fact - he _does_ take pride in being a Milkovich. It’s the _weight_ of that pride he’s been enjoying living without in his anonymity in New York. There were days back home when it got so heavy he used to think he may sink into the earth’s crust and disappear completely. 

_If my dad finds out about this he’ll murder me himself-_

And then there’s the subject of his dad. 

Growing up, Terry made sure they knew many things. He pressed guns into their hands, cigarettes into their skin and tattooed profanities onto their knuckles.

Mickey doesn’t think about his dad often, Terry’s one of those _things_ that he slipped under a loose floorboard in his brain and shoved something heavy on top of it. The looming question of _Chicago_ has him inching up that floorboard and allowing all of those demons he’s had safely tucked away for years to spill out freely. 

He doesn’t even know where the _fuck_ his dad is. He doesn’t know if he’s out of prison, on parole or if he’s even alive (as if Mickey could be so lucky). He heard whispers of his name whilst he was inside, but somehow managed to miraculously avoid coming across any of his dad’s close incarcerated friends. 

He doesn’t even know what to expect if his dad saw him again and that’s partly what terrifies him the most. He’s seen Terry flip flop between relationships with people, pressing a gun to someone’s temple one moment then clapping a hand down on a shoulder in solidarity the next. 

Where does he stand? 

He knows he’s on pretty shaky ground considering the fact the last time they saw each other, his father was trying to kill him with his bare hands - Mickey doesn’t imagine he’d be too receptive of his _pole smoking queer_ of a son being back in town if they bump into each other over a cold one at The Alibi. 

He twists the faucet on and cups some cold water into his hand. He takes it into his mouth and lets it sit there for a moment, the metallic taste of blood from his harsh gums flooding his taste buds. He spits it back out into the sink. 

There are three rapid chimes that ring out loudly from where his phone sits on the side, and forces himself to take his time when reaching for it, the urge to do it quickly is strong. He picks it up, carefully cradling it in his hands as he reads.

 **13:54pm from Ian  
** **‘Yeah sorry i know buuut you were sleeping’**

 **13:54pm from Ian  
** **‘See you soon.’**

 **13:54pm to Ian  
** **‘:)’**

He stares at the _stupid as fuck_ smiley face and God, Mickey loves him. It lights something warm in his chest. A fucking _smiley_ face. 

What the fuck is he supposed to do? 

He loves him so much his knees feel _weak._

He steadies himself, his hands gripping the ceramic sink bowl and stares himself down in the mirror. 

‘Get your shit together, Milkovich.’ he says to himself, the irony of his name sitting bitterly on his tongue. He watches his lips move in the mirror and feels awfully pathetic. He’s hit with the impulse to send a fist into the glass, his fingers itch with it but he tightens his grip. 

He can hear the tick of the clock in the kitchen, the deafening slow passing of time with each jolt of a clock hand.

 _Ticktockticktockticktock_ -

The countdown thumps.

Mickey needs to go see Ian before it is literally _too late_ and he regrets it. 

He gets dressed quickly into something passable - it’s been weeks since he did his laundry and the pile on his floor is getting a little gross but he throws another shirt on top because today is _not_ that day. He runs his fingers through his hair, wishing he had the forethought for a quick shower and calculates his next move. 

Does he run over to Ian? Take a cab? The subway? 

Does he forget everything that’s happened in the last week or so, delete his number and throw _this_ phone down a subway grate? 

_No-_

Mickey’s not fucking stupid. Even the thought of it makes him sick. 

He pockets his wallet and phone, and walks towards the door, stopping for a second in the doorway opening into the kitchen. There’s a brief moment of contemplation before he gives into his dry throat and he quickly pulls the fridge door open to grab a cool PBR from the back. 

He leaves his apartment quickly, elbowing his door closed as he cracks open his beer with a deft flick of his thumb. 

He takes the stairs as he sips, the familiar liquid going down easy before pulls out his phone and clicks the number nagging at the back of his head. It rings, he sips and it clicks, connected. 

_‘Sandy-’_

‘What’s up?’ 

‘Listen.’ He says, kicking the front door open with his left foot. The street is loud and the sidewalk is busy. ‘I’m gonna say somethin’ and I need you to give it to me fuckin’ straight, okay?’ 

Sandy scoffs, it’s tinny down the line. ‘Sure.’ 

Mickey swallows, nerves swirling below. 

‘What if I went back to Chicago?’ He says it quickly, spitting out the words as if he hangs onto them for too long he’ll swallow them back down and lock them up. 

There’s a long drawn out pause coloured by the electric static of a quiet line and it makes him want to scream. He attempts to hold out for her response, anxiously runs his fingers down the side of his phone, but let’s himself give in when the silence steps over the line of _just a little bit too much._

‘Fuck, you gonna make me say it?’ Mickey says, bringing the can up to his lips. He takes a big gulp and lets it settle in his stomach before anxiously adding, ‘You know… like to live again.’

Sandy clicks her tongue down the receiver, ‘Is this about Ian?’ 

_‘No_.’ Mickey grunts, dodging out of the way of a group of people who come pouring out of a Duane Reade. 

Sandy hums. 

He might as well just fucking say it, he knows he’s fooling neither of them. 

‘Fine. Yes, it’s about Ian.’ His hand shakes and he swipes at his lip distractedly, ‘Am I fuckin’ idiot for thinkin’ about going home for him?’ 

‘I mean, yeah- you’re an idiot.’ Sandy says, and now Mickey _really_ thinks he might throw up now. ‘But that doesn’t mean, you’re an _idiot_.’ 

_‘Great, thank_ _you-_ the fuck is that supposed to mean?’ Mickey snaps, irritated. He called her because she doesn’t _do_ unhelpful bullshit, he doesn’t need that right now - he needs someone to pu this head back together for him cause he’s doing an absolutely shit job, ‘I told you to be fuckin’ straight with me.’ 

Mickey steps into a side alley to avoid the busy throng of people on the main street and tries not to think about the _ticktockticktockticktockticktock-_

‘Do I think you’re an idiot for wanting to go back to Chicago? Course I do- Southside fuckin’ blows.’ Sandy says, and Mickey’s heart thumps. He instinctively wants to snap back some sort of crap about being _Southside forever_ , but he bites his tongue. He doesn’t believe in that shit anymore anyway, even if it still sits in him like an instilled natural reaction - like removing his hand from a burning saucepan. She continues, ‘You wanna go, Mickey. You’re just askin’ me cause you think you have to.’ 

‘Not true.’ He says with an indignant sip and beer drips from the corner of his mouth. 

_‘Uuuuh_ , yeah it is-but that’s _okay_.’ Sandy says with a frustrated groan, ‘That’s what I’m tryin’ to get at here.’

Now he’s just confused, ‘What?’ 

‘Listen, Mickey. You wanna go and be with Ian, so go fucking _be_ with Ian.’ 

He makes a sound of disbelief from the back of his throat, ‘Like it’s that fuckin’ easy.’ 

‘It is that easy.’ Sandy says with a condescending drawl, ‘You’re an adult- stop lettin’ the shitty things that happened control you. You came to New York because it was the right thing for you to do then, great. It’s not the right thing now, and that’s okay.’ 

He presses the can to his forehead and breathes. 

‘Chicago shit aside- you’re not gonna say it, but I know how fucking difficult it is to trust someone after they shit on you the way Ian did.’ She continues, and he wants to bite back that _isn’t fair you know-_ but she beats him to it. ‘I know he was going through shit and it wasn’t his fault or whatever- doesn’t change the fact you felt like shit over it for years. But this is it, right? You trust him?’ 

‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’ He says without hesitating. He knows it deep down into his bones. 

‘Then do you really need to think about this?’ 

Mickey swallows the last of his beer down and crushes the can against the wall. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to, Sandy’s said enough. 

‘Anyway, I gotta go.’ She says, he can hear the regret in her voice. This would all be so much easier if she was here with him and they could crack open a beer and discuss shit like _adults_. She continues, ‘You’ve barely had the chance to do the shit you want in the last 10 years- let yourself do what you want.’ 

He nods, invisible to her. 

‘Talk to you soon, okay?’

‘Yeah. Soon.’ 

Who knows when then the fuck that will be, he doesn’t add. 

She hangs up, and he lets the phone rest against his temple for a moment as he breathes before pocketing it. With a flicked wrist, he throws the can into the trash and pushes himself off the brick wall. 

Mickey thinks about what Sandy said as he pushes through the subway turnstiles, about how he spent the best part of 10 years doing practically _nothing_ and now when he’s finally faced with a decision that could change everything… 

He doesn’t know. 

The subway ride over to Fiona’s is one of slow, drawn out torture. They end up sitting for a good ten minutes at the first stop because some asshole pulled the emergency brake on the train in front and Mickey’s knee shakes anxiously the entire time. 

_Ticktockticktockticktockticktock-_

Once they finally pull away and the driver apologises for the wait, he lets the air fall out of his lungs and tips his head back against the window. If he closes his eyes for a second between stops and the sounds of the underground overwhelm him, he can almost pretend he’s on the El. 

The tracks, metal on metal, the sparks of electricity. 

It’s almost the same. 

_Almost_. 

It’s not the same though - it’s not and that’s the whole fucking issue, isn’t it? 

They’re worlds apart, worlds that Mickey naively thought he’d never have to see collide again. 

He walks slowly from the subway station towards Fiona’s building, his feet heavy and weighty. There’s a clock above his head and it is _ticking_. 

Tomorrow, Ian won’t be in New York. 

Tomorrow, Ian will be back in Chicago, back to the rest of his life and the last nine years without Mickey.

Unless. Unless. Unless. 

Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck do to. 

‘ _Hey, Mickey!_ ’ 

He pulls his gaze up from where it had been trailing along the sidewalk and they meet Fiona as she’s stepping out of the door of her building. 

‘How are you doing?’ She says, biting her lip cautiously. There’s something sad in her eyes, and Mickey wants to tell her to wipe it away. He doesn’t. 

‘Great.’ He replies shortly. 

‘Well, uh… he’s upstairs.’ She says with a pulled face, and Mickey doesn’t know what to read from the expression. Is it pity? Does he want pity? Do they warrant pity? 

She must catch onto his discomfort because the twisted look drops and she gives him a smile, ‘Glad you’re here Mickey. Go on up-’ 

‘Thanks.’ He nods, slipping past and stepping over her foot propping the door open for him. He doesn’t turn back to say goodbye like he knows he probably should but everything feels _tight_ and he needs to see Ian _now_. 

Mickey takes the stairs two at a time, the sudden rush of being _so close so close so close_ pushing him forward. The clock counts down. 

When he reaches Fiona’s apartment, there’s a suitcase in the doorway keeping it open and Mickey wonders briefly if it’s because Ian knew he was coming which sends _all kinds of things_ swirling in his gut. He walks slowly through the apartment towards Fiona’s room at the back, he can hear movement and music coming out from the open door. 

Mickey stands there for a moment watching Ian move around the room unnoticed. 

_‘...whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am home again…’_ The stereo sings. It’s an older song, some shit from the 80s he’s heard a handful of times on grocery store radios or switching between stations. It’s nothing he’d listen to voluntarily, but the melody’s kinda nice. 

His heart thumps.

Ian works quickly, shoving random things into an open backpack on Fiona’s bed. There’s not much inside, he remembers the suitcase before and realises Ian can’t have brought much else out with him when he originally came. His brief life here can fit into two small bags. 

_‘...whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am whole again…’_

It would be easy for him to get caught up in simply watching Ian, but _things_ weigh heavy on his shoulders and they do not have the time to waste. He shifts, and clears his throat, _‘Yo_.’ 

Ian looks up, his mouth breaking into a smile once his eyes settle on Mickey. ‘Hey-’

Mickey sighs, ripping the bandaid off, ‘When you leavin’?’ 

Ian’s eyebrows raise, the smile slipping from his features as the reality of everything hanging over them sinks in. 

_‘...however far away, I will always love you…’_

Fuck. 

Mickey wants to throw something at the radio, rip the plug out of the wall and launch it out of the window. He doesn’t move. 

Ian catches his eye and his Adam’s bobs with a deep swallow as he stills his movements. ‘Couple hours. Flight’s at 8.’

Mickey pushes down the twinge in his chest and whistles, ‘Gettin’ into O’Hare late?’ 

‘Yeah- straight on shift as soon as I land...Sue’s, uh, picking me up.’ Ian says with a scratch at his jaw, it’s awkward and uncertain and Mickey hates it. Ian looks at him for a split second longer, then switches back to shoving random shit into his bag. 

Mickey watches the movement and grimaces, ‘You’re gonna be tired as shit.’ 

Ian sighs, stopping again. Things feel clunky between them, ‘Yeah.’ 

_‘_ _...whatever words I say, I will always love you…’_

Ian squeezes his eyes shut and Mickey knows he’s hearing it too. There’s an overwhelming want flooding through him, the want to take Ian into his arms, press his forehead against his and just _breathe_ together because this shit fucking _sucks_ and every bone in his body feels like it’s going to break. 

_‘...however far away I will always love you-’_

Ian practically launches himself at the radio and the music shuts off abruptly. They stare at each other for a moment, Ian’s eyes wide with surprise at himself and his own sudden movement - he looks absolutely ridiculous and Mickey can’t help but laugh. 

‘Thanks.’ He says, the low chuckle falling with a drop of his shoulders. 

‘Dumb music.’ Ian says, crossing his arms across his chest sheepishly. There’s a slight blush on his cheeks, and it makes Mickey want to cup them in both hands and hold them there forever. 

‘Can’t be saving lives if you fall asleep on the job, Gallagher.’ He says after a second, circling back to Ian’s comment before, almost as if the last moment never happened. He wants to push the song and those lyrics out of the room because _no thank you._

Ian looks confused for a second before he smoothens out, catching on with a sad smile. Neither man moves. 

‘Try to.’ Ian mumbles with a shrug. 

Mickey stares at him and Ian stares back and everything is _weird,_ they can both feel it and Mickey knows Ian’s hating it just as much as he is. Apart from their reunion before the wedding, things have never been _weird_ between the two of them. 

‘Ian...’ Mickey starts, and apparently that’s enough to break the tension because Ian’s suddenly moving again but this time it’s in his direction. Mickey steps forward to meet him, and Ian’s hands come trailing up his neck to cup the back of his head and slots their mouths together. 

‘Sorry for not staying.’ Ian says when they break apart, foreheads resting against one another. They kiss again, this one more heated than the first. Ian speaks against his lips, ‘Should’ve woken you up-’ 

‘You’re fine- I get it.’ Mickey says breathlessly, his hand slips down his back and rests above Ian’s ass. His voice lowers with hot lust, ‘Wish you did though.’ 

Ian groans, but leans back into the touch. 

‘Don’t have time.’ He says, but dips his head and kisses him anyway, his tongue slipping into Mickey’s mouth. 

They don’t _have_ time, they both know this, there’s a clock and every minute passes with a _ticktockticktockticktockticktock-_

They moan into each other’s mouths and Mickey’s ass hits Fiona’s dresser as they stumble backwards. It’s a mutually agreed _fuck that_ to the universe, they get to have this.

Mickey shoves down all thoughts about the impending future of the next few hours and presses himself into Ian’s body, because he _needs_ to be closer, he needs them together. Hands move hungrily, Ian’s shirt is pulled up and over his head and discarded onto the floor. Their belts come off next, tossed to the side as pants are shoved down past their knees and shoes kicked off. 

Ian doesn’t stop kissing him as he clumsily pushes them down onto the bed, manhandling him with a firm grip as he twists Mickey flat onto his chest. 

_‘Fuck_ , yes-’ Mickey moans as Ian trails wet kisses up his spine, his fingers dancing up Mickey’s rib cage that send a shiver right down to his toes. 

He’s fully hard now, they both are, and Mickey ruts into the mattress for some sort of release, he knows he’s not going to last long. Ian’s hand grabs at his hip bone and stops his movements still in place. 

‘ _Come on_ , _man-’_ Mickey begins to grumble because they don’t have _time_ but he gets cut off by his own moaning as Ian thrusts himself between his cheeks which makes Mickey almost forget his own name. There’s the familiar click of a cap being flicked off and a warmed slicked up finger pressing into him follows shortly after. 

Ian preps him quickly, one, two, three fingers until Mickey’s pressing himself backwards with each push because he needs _moremoremoremoremore._ He hears the crinkle of a condom wrapper, there’s a kiss pressed to the nape of his neck and then Ian’s sliding in and yes, oh yes, it’s _everything_.

They fuck quickly, Ian’s hips slam rapidly into his ass and Mickey finds himself biting down into the pillow as he rocks backwards to meet his movements. It’s rough, and _oh so close_ and riddled with mutual taking. Ian fingers dig into his hips in a way he knows will leave bruises, and Mickey wants them to. He wants to be marked by this, by Ian, by _them_. He wants to be able to look back on the marks on his skin and remember everything about this.

_Don’t let this be goodbye, don’t let his be goodbye, don’t let this be goodbye-_

Minutes pass in moans and sweat and skin against skin. It’s not a sad fuck, they refuse to let it be. They’re not thinking about the clock slowly counting down to _the end,_ they’re not thinking about domestic flights or unfinished packing. This is it, this is now and Mickey wishes he could pause the rest of the fucking _noise_ in his head and live here forever with Ian moving inside of him. 

This is all he’ll ever fucking want. 

He knows he’ll never be this close with another human again. He doesn’t want to be. 

Mickey comes first, finally pushed over the edge by Ian’s hand creeping around his side and giving his leaking dick a few sharp tugs, his fingers sliding along messily in his precome. 

_‘Yes, yes, there you go- go on, come, do it.’_ Ian grunts hotly into Mickey’s ear, pressing messy kisses against his matted hair as Mickey spills out onto the sheets, his face pressed hard into the pillow. 

Three sharp thrusts later and Ian’s following him quickly, his hips stuttering as he comes inside of him with a loud throaty exhale. They collapse down completely onto the mattress, and Ian slides out of him with a lip bitten hiss. Mickey senses him slip the condom off and the bed dips as he throws it towards the trash. 

They lie in place for a second, their breathing syncing up with each other, chests rising and falling with exhausted breath. 

The moment shifts with Ian twisting himself to lie on his side and Mickey knows with a sharp stab in the gut that this is where life begins again.

_Ticktockticktockticktockticktock-_

Ian presses a hand flat on Mickey’s chest, directly over the poorly done inking of his own name and whispers, ‘Don’t wanna push you…but think about it.’ 

Mickey looks at him - he knows what he’s talking about, he doesn’t need to ask. 

Ian runs his other hand through Mickey’s hair, unsticking it from his sweaty forehead, ‘I’ll wait- let’s just, wait for each other.’ 

_Wait_. 

The word hangs there and Mickey wants to laugh bitterly - it’s fucking ironic, all of this. Despite all the time passing and the many steps forward they’ve taken together, that word still feels like a piercing cut to his stomach. The weight of it, the expectation of it, the history of it. 

He asked Ian to wait once before. He can’t do it again. 

Mickey swallows, ‘If you’re here and I’m there- we ain’t doing long distance.’ 

_‘Mick-’_ Ian says, his expression pained. Mickey knows Ian’s thinking about that _day_ too and it hurts, but he _needs_ to stand by this. 

He moves Ian's hand off his chest, pushing himself to sit upright - he can’t believe they’re having this conversation naked and covered in quickly drying come but he knows it can’t wait, ‘This ain’t a fuckin’ romcom- I can’t do _that_. It’s not good for you, it’s not good for me.’ 

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it happens again… _wait_ and he’s left alone. 

‘If you’re there and I’m here… that’s just how it’ll have to be.’ He says with a shaky swipe at his lip.

 _‘...however far away, I will always love you…’_ rings on a loop in his head. He presses his palms into his eyes. 

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Ian loves him - he does. He trusts Ian’s love more than a lot of things but distance… it’s difficult. Their history with distance and separation - it’s rough. 

Ian sighs heavily and Mickey can tell he wants to fight more about this, but surprising both of them, he doesn’t, instead he leans forward and kisses him lightly.

‘You don’t have to come now...a month, 6 months, a year- doesn’t matter when.’ Ian says, finding Mickey’s fingers again and threading them with his own, ‘Think about it.’ 

Mickey looks at him and something unravels inside his chest. He wants to tell Ian that it’s all he’s been thinking about, that there’s a decision he knows needs to be made and he is _so close_ to making it. He doesn’t. 

‘Okay.’ He says instead, and he looks at him intently because he can’t say anymore but he hopes Ian hears him. He’s trying. He’s trying really fucking hard to be okay with this. 

‘You gonna come to the airport?’ Ian says after a second. 

Mickey’s breath catches in his throat, he actually hadn’t thought about that, ‘I...dunno...do you want me to?’ 

‘If you want.’ 

‘I don’t know.’

Ian nods and leans upwards, kissing him softly. It’s sweet. They’ve never had _sweet_. 

‘This is the second time now we’ve fucked in Fiona’s bed.’ Ian says with a chuckle against his lips. 

‘Lucky her.’ Mickey says, the corners of his mouth turning up in amusement because it _is_ pretty funny when he thinks about it. 

They move slowly, reluctantly untangling themselves with lingering, drawn out limbs.

Ian showers first whilst Mickey stays behind, mindlessly scrolling through his phone to avoid the creeping anxiety building in his gut as the minutes pass. He knows Ian almost suggested the showered together, the way he stopped and twisted towards him in the doorway before leaving towards the bathroom, but he’s quietly glad he didn’t. He wouldn’t have been able to _stop_ himself if they did. 

He’s halfway through a crappy Buzzfeed article about birds when he hears the water shut off and Ian shuffles out a minute or so later with a towel wrapped around his waist. 

His hair is wet and slicked back, there are left over water droplets trailing down his abs and Mickey’s dick twitches in interest. Ian catches the movement, he looks at him pointedly and smirks. Asshole. They don’t have _time_. 

‘Shut _up_.’ Mickey says with an embarrassed eye roll, and he hears Ian break into a laugh as he stalks down the hallway towards the bathroom. 

It takes him a second to figure out how Fiona’s shower works - it’s one of those expensive ones with a big shower-head and complicated buttons, it screams _money_ and _privilege_ \- but soon there’s warm water against his skin washing any remnants of dried come away. He uses some bottled pink soap shit he found on the side and scrubs under his arms, his legs and pubes. Mickey tries to do it all quickly, he knows he hasn’t got time to _kill_ , but the water pressure is so much fucking better than his apartment so he lets himself have a moment as the bathroom steams up. 

When he gets back through to Fiona’s room, the towel he assumed Ian left for him folded on the toilet wrapped around his waist, Ian’s dressed and sitting on the bed looking at his phone. 

He looks up as Mickey enters, he smiles, ‘You good?’ 

‘That shit is complicated, who needs that many fuckin’ buttons?’ He says, keeping his gaze on the wall opposite as he lets the towel drop to the floor. Ian sucks in a sharp breath behind him and it makes him feel _good,_ because even though they literally just had sex, it’s always nice to be reminded that he has that effect on someone. He smiles, even though Ian can’t see it, and forces himself to focus on stepping into the underwear he’d strewn on the floor in their haste. 

There’s silence, then Ian clears his throat, ‘Gonna miss that water pressure though- you know how shitty it is at home.’ 

Mickey hums in response, his chest still warm, and dresses into the rest of his clothes quickly. When he’s done, he sits down onto the bed next to Ian. 

‘What’s the time?’ He asks with regretful sigh, and even though he doesn’t want to know the answer because _ticktockticktockticktockticktock,_ he has to ask. 

‘Almost 5.’ Ian exhales, letting his phone fall to the mattress after he checks. Mickey’s heart aches because he didn’t know what he expected but 5 o’clock is later than 4, 3, 2 o’clock and he _knows_ Ian will have to leave for the airport soon. Travelling across the city can be a bitch even at the best of times. 

His shoulders drop in defeated disappointment, and Ian leans over and takes Mickey’s hand into his, pulling them into his lap. 

‘Where is Fiona? Doesn’t she want to say goodbye?’ Mickey asks _too casually_ as he watches Ian thumb rub small circles over his. There’s no way Ian was leaving her without the typical Fiona Gallagher fanfare. ‘Surprised we even managed to slip a bang in without her interrupting.’ 

Ian laughs, then his smile falters. ‘We said goodbye earlier, she uh… wanted to give us space, you know?’ 

‘Oh.’ Mickey says, though he realises it ultimately doesn’t really shock him. 

‘Yeah.’ Ian says, ‘Nice of her.’ 

‘Yeah.’ 

The next hour passes slowly, they move tentatively around each other in a way that’s completely unfamiliar, mutually unable to navigate the fucked up situation they’ve found themselves in. A beer is shared between them on Fiona’s sofa whilst they watch a rerun of some unmemorable nineties sitcom to pass the time. Elbows bump elbows and thighs press up against thighs and they laugh at stupid lines in a pretence of upholding normalcy. 

The television show isn’t sad, but Mickey feels a sting behind the eyes. 

Ian’s alarm goes off halfway through their second episode, they’ve both managed to ease some tension and Mickey’s situated himself against his chest whilst Ian’s running his fingers through his drying hair. 

It’s 6 o’clock. Ian needs to leave now otherwise he will miss his flight. 

They stare at each other, both men knowing this, whilst the alarm rings out into the room untouched. 

‘Gotta go.’ Ian says depressively, his eyes are suddenly wet and there’s a knife twisting in Mickey’s chest. He doesn’t move whilst Ian leans over and shuts off his alarm. 

‘Yeah.’ He says simply, his tone controlled, like he isn’t falling apart inside. Like this isn’t the worst fucking thing. 

He gets to have Ian back in his life for a handful of days and after a decade things get back to _normal_ , back to the way they’re supposed to be. 

Then it gets ripped away from him. 

He helps Ian gather his stuff, double checking everything and giving the rest of the apartment a once over. 

‘Fiona can send me my shit if I’ve forgotten something.’ Ian says, leaning against the breakfast bar for one last look in the kitchen. 

Mickey nods, blinking rapidly. He can’t bare the sight of Ian with a suitcase and a backpack, standing straight and all fucking ready to go. 

‘Or you could bring it. You know… whenever.’ Ian continues, looking at him shyly though his voice is solid and confident - which is good, because Mickey isn’t used to Ian being _shy_. 

Ian’s confidence in Mickey coming back to Chicago should make him feel _some kind of way_. It should probably make him feel hopefully and certain - that Ian believes in _them_ so unquestionably that there’s no _what if_. 

It terrifies him. It assures him. 

He doesn’t know what the fuck it does to him. 

‘Wanna take a cab to the Airtrain? Fuck the subway.’ 

Mickey nods. 

_Ticktockticktockticktockticktock-_

They ride in silence and it’s as comfortable as it is sad. He watches the city go by as they cross over the bridge and into Queens, his heart squeezing in his chest as he stares at each building, sidewalk, pedestrian with great intensity, almost as if he’s trying to burn them into his memory. He’s not the one leaving, but he can’t shake the feeling of things being _final_. 

Mickey’s hand never leaves Ian’s the entire time, fingers tangled together in a last minute hope of keeping them there forever. Ian’s head rests gently in the curve of his neck and Mickey holds him close. He only ever wants him close. 

God, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. 

The cab pulls up right alongside Jamaica Station and the countdown hits zero. They both feel it. 

Ian peels himself off Mickey’s side reluctantly and he feels the overwhelming loss almost instantly and resists the urge to pull him back down and tell the driver to turn the fuck around. 

The driver, some old guy with a thick Eastern European accent, helps pull Ian’s suitcase out of the trunk whilst Mickey stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot because he easily could’ve done that but he doesn’t want to get in the way. 

Ian tips him with a smile and waves him off, ‘Have a goodnight.’ 

The car drives off and they turn to each other. 

Then it’s just them, the rest of New York and the weight of the world on their shoulders. 

‘You didn’t have to come.’ Ian says casually, though they both know it’s everything but casual. He fixes the strap on his shoulder. ‘I mean, I wanted you to obviously.’ 

Mickey wants to say, _there’s nowhere else I’d fucking be_ but instead he steps forward, pulling Ian in by the nape of his neck and capturing his lips in a desperate kiss. His tongue slips into Ian’s open mouth and it’s full of lust, and longing, hopes and dreams, endings and beginnings. 

It’s _I love you, I love you, I love you._

Ian’s hands cradle the sides of his face, his thumbs trailing along his stubble, holding him there in place. 

‘You should go.’ Mickey says, and it burns his throat as it comes out but he knows Ian needs to move right _now_ otherwise they’ll stay in place together all night long. ‘Gonna be fuckin’ late.’ 

‘You should come.’ Ian says painfully, his eyes are wet and Mickey’s are too, ‘I’m sorry I know I said I wasn’t gonna push I just, I want you back Mickey. I want this back.’ 

He swallows. 

‘This is me, Mickey. Us. This is it for me - you know that right?’ Ian looks at him earnestly, Mickey has to stop himself from locking his arms around his neck and keeping him there for hours, ‘My head is all over the fuckin’ place from one day to the next, but this is _it_.’ 

‘I want…’ Mickey stops himself, he _thinks_ he knows what he wants - but is he ready for it? He doesn’t know. He squares his shoulders and says the one thing he knows for sure, ‘I love you.’ 

Ian smiles sadly and leans in for another kiss. This one feels final. 

‘I know. I love you too.’ Ian says, echoing the words Mickey had said only the night before. It all feels like a lifetime ago, but it still rings true. ‘I’ll see you soon then… I guess.’ 

‘I’ll see you soon, you fuckin’ pussy.’ Mickey says with a pained laugh, because things feel _too serious_ and the panic of being left here _alone_ is slowly starting to set into his bones. Ian’s hand cups his cheek for a second longer, before Ian drops it heavily down to his side and Mickey feels like he’s lost a limb. 

‘Don’t take too long.’ Ian says with a quiet laugh, walking backwards as he steps away, flipping Mickey off with his free hand as he goes, his four wheeled suitcase trailing alongside him. Everything in him screams at him to follow him, to pull him back and keep him at his side, but he suppresses it as much as he can and throws back a middle finger with a smirk. It hurts. 

He watches Ian walk towards the Airtrain station, his feet planted firmly in their place on the sidewalk, not moving an inch until he watches his figure go through the automatic doors and out of sight. 

Then he’s gone. 

Mickey’s surprised his knees don’t buckle right there in front of everyone. 

His chest is heavy and his fingers itch for a cigarette to hold - he didn't bring any with him, and he considers stopping into a bodega before heading back into the city but the thought of talking to another person, erasing Ian being the last person he spoke to, makes him feel sick. 

Jamaica is busy once he works himself up to walking down into the station, the combination of tourists and commuters heading towards the LIRR means there’s hardly any breathing room - which doesn’t help the burning sensation in his chest. 

He stands on the platform for twenty minutes, watching myriads of trains pull in and out of the station, passengers piling on and off, people going about their lives cluelessly. He can’t bring himself to leave. If he leaves right now, then he’s done, Ian’s done, they’re done. This chapter of his life is underlined and finished. 

But _fuck_ , does it have to be? 

Mickey presses the palms of his hands into his eyes and breathes. 

_Let yourself do what you want_ , Sandy had said. 

He knows what he wants, Ian knows what he wants, Sandy knows what he wants. 

Even Mandy, Fiona and probably even Lip knows what he wants. 

Why can’t he let himself have what he wants? 

His head is foggy and unclear once the urge to board a train finally kicks in. He slides into the corner seat and leans his head against the cart’s metal wall. Tourists pile on around him with big suitcases, business men in suits, and families with one too many children. 

It hits him slowly, like a delayed train pulling into a station without a clear destination until now. 

He hears the voices around him and he wishes their accents were slightly different. He hears the subway cart rumble against the tracks and he wishes it was the metal on metal sparks of the El, he studies the advertisements and wishes they said the _Chicago Transit Authority_ instead of the MTA. 

Fuck. 

Okay… realistically, if he was going to leave New York in a nondescript amount of time, what is it he needs to do? 

He goes back over the mental list he made earlier. 

He’s gotta talk to Mandy. He’s gotta sort out their place, quit his job. Talk to Roy. 

But that’s it, really. 

That’s it. If he wanted to leave New York and go back home, that’s the short list of the things he’ll need to do. 

Home. 

_‘...whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am home again…’_

That fucking song. 

That’s… it. 

_Oh_. 

It’s so fucking simple. It’s always been so fucking simple. 

He doesn’t want to wait. He doesn’t want to sit around Manhattan moping around, figuring shit out when he’d rather be _with_ Ian. 

Ian is home. He knows this, he’s always known this, but it’s really, truly only just stinking in now. 

He doesn’t want to waste anymore time. 

Who the fuck knows how long it might be until he gets his head together? - fuck, it might never even happen. There’s too much _shit_ to wade knee-deep through, too much to sort out and dust off, too many boxes left unopened. Chicago is _heavy_ , it carries a lot for him. It’s the place he was born and raised, the place he first fired a gun, the first time he fell in love, the first time he kissed someone, the first time he kissed someone and it _mattered_ , the first time he was pistol whipped, the first time he had his heart ripped _out-_

The streets are lined with trauma. The streets are lined with gold. 

Chicago or not. It’s Ian and he learnt a very long time ago that come hell or earth, whether he likes it or not - he’d do pretty much anything for that man.

The subway pulls into a stop somewhere in Queens - he’s not paying enough attention, but he just knows it hasn’t been too many since he left the Airtrain and he flies out of his seat as soon as the doors open. He takes two steps at a time off the platform, following the signs taking him back in the opposite direction.

 _Fuck_ \- the next train back towards the airport isn’t for another 10 minutes. 

He pulls his phone out quickly, his hands shaking as he tries to unlock it - he needs to text Ian, he needs to check flights, call Mandy or whatever - but it slips through his clumsy fingers and falls screen first down onto the platform. He bends down and picks it up cautiously. 

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck-_

The thing is completely smashed and cracked glass spider webs out against a blacked out screen. Mickey presses the home button multiple times in vain but it refuses to show any form of life. 

Great, he’s managed to ruin two phones within the space of a week. He’s going through them like he’s a man with cash to burn. He isn’t. 

Mickey runs a frustrated hand down his face. Of course his phone fucking _shatters_ and he can’t tell Ian that he’s changed his mind, _of course_. He can’t even check the status of Ian’s flight or the next flight out to Chicago, or tell Mandy or Sandy what he’s doing. He can’t tell anyone. 

Mickey’s faced with two options now, either he goes back home and rethinks or pushes forward and keeps going. 

He looks over his shoulder towards the direction of the train that would take him back to Manhattan, back home and back to his life. 

He could do it. He could go back to Harlem and forget about everything. Go back to the life he’s fucking built for himself here, hundreds of miles from Chicago and keep it all safely locked up in that box, never to be touched again. 

Except… he wouldn’t be able to forget about everything. It’s not that simple. _Ian_ isn’t that simple. 

Mickey considers for a moment about going home to gather a few things - mainly some clothes and boot up his laptop to send Ian an email or some shit, but he also knows that if he _does_ go home, then there’s the possibility he might chicken out and not come back. 

He has to do this. He has to do this before he thinks about it too much and shit gets even _more_ complicated. 

The train pulls into the platform, steaming down the tracks loudly with sparks of electricity. The noise grinds into Mickey’s ears and he forces himself not to clamp his hands over the sides of his head. 

Almost like some mystical sign - as if Mickey even believes in that shit, the train stops and the doors open directly in front of where he’s standing. 

The decision was made for him then, he guesses. 

The ride to the Airtrain goes by quickly and Mickey spends the entire time with his shaking hands shoved between his thighs. 

He’s doing this. He _wants_ to do this. 

This might be the scariest fucking thing he’s ever done. 

Scarier than jumping on his father’s back and being pistol whipped in the face, scarier than _not everybody gets to blurt out how they fuckin’ feel every minute_ , scarier than _I just want everyone here to fuckin’ know_ , scarier than _I love you._

Scarier than taking Ian Gallagher’s hand for a second time and trusting him with his heart. 

It’s a hell of a lot scarier than a prison sentence and an orange jumpsuit. 

He leaps off the Airtrain once it pulls into the terminal Ian had mentioned - 4? He’s pretty sure it was 4, and follows the signs towards _departures_. There’s rows and rows of desks once he gets there so he picks one at random with a short line and waits anxiously for his turn. 

_‘Next.’_ The woman calls, eyeing at Mickey expectedly. 

Here goes nothing. 

He slams his hand down onto the counter echoing the way he’s seen people do in movies, running completely on over eager adrenaline buzzing through him uncontrollably, ‘Get me on the next flight out to Chicago-’ 

The woman working behind the computer jumps back slightly, but other than that doesn’t seem too fussed. She types something out onto the screen, the keyboard making a _clack clack clack_ sound as she goes, it grates into him. She looks up at him, ‘Sure- that’s in 2 hours?’

‘Jesus Christ, I could _walk_ there in 2 hours.’ He says with an impatient eye roll, drumming his fingers against the counter. 

He couldn’t, but nevertheless if it came down to it, he’d try. 

The lady - _Belinda_ , her name tag reads - raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. 

‘Sir, would you like me to book you onto the flight or not?’ She says plainly, and there’s a nag in the back of his head telling him to stop being such an _asshole_ but he’s out of his depth and can’t focus on being _nice_ right now. 

‘Yes- please, _fuck_.’ He says, rubbing at an eyebrow in an attempt to focus. He looks around at the airport quickly, and there’s _so_ much going on. People are talking all around him, screens are displaying all different kinds of confusing messages. 

It’s overwhelming as shit and he can feel his hands begin to clam up. 

Belinda coughs and looks over at him from the computer screen. ‘Return date?’ She asks and the question makes him freeze. 

Return date. 

She looks at him expectantly. 

Return date? 

_Jesus Christ._ This is a lot. 

Belinda frowns, ‘Or would you like a one way ticket?’ She prompts, her tone is condensing but Mickey’s so fucking out of his depth he can’t even blame her. 

There’s a lump in Mickey’s throat, he coughs in an attempt to swallow it down. ‘One way.’ 

She nods, and goes back to typing. Mickey presses a palm into the right side of his temple - a headache is forming. 

_One way._

‘Can I see your ID?’ 

He slides it over without a word and her eyes flicker down to the _FUCKU_ tattooed on his knuckles. He watches as she fills in his details and it’s weird, in a _she’s looking at his life under a microscope_ kind of way. He’s suddenly very aware of how he looks - bruised, battered, tattooed knuckles and all. 

Mickey’s face stings, the phantom impact from that asshole’s punch lingering. 

He must look like an absolute prick. 

He’s been so caught up with _Chicago_ looming over him heavily that he hasn’t even taken the chance to consider the fact that he’s never actually been _on_ a plane before. He took a Greyhound out to New York originally and there was no chance in hell in _travelling_ anywhere during his childhood. Vacations and flying in planes was meant for Northsiders and those with cash to waste - not families who had to coupon their way to their next meal or scam their way through benefit systems for pennies from the state. 

He pays quickly, cringing as he swipes his credit card - he never thought he’d ever even _have_ a credit card but Mandy had insisted when he moved in - and she slides the ticket across to him. 

‘You’re in the correct terminal- head through security.’ She says, waving her hand to beckon someone forward. ‘Thank you, _next_.’ 

Mickey bites his tongue and forces a smile, moving quickly out of the way and into where he assumes is the main area underneath all the random signs. 

There’s arrows pointing all over the place and it makes his head hurt.

He stares at the ticket in his hand and he doesn’t know what the _fuck_ any of it means. No one ever told him airports were this fucking complicated - all those films lied, this shit is _not_ as straight forward as they made it out to be. 

_Fuck_ , he just wants to be with Ian. 

It takes a second of him scowling up at the signs when voice comes from behind him followed by a sharp tug at his shoulder, ‘Excuse me sir-’ 

Mickey flinches backwards and spins, ‘Who the _fuck-’_

He stops. ‘You look like you could use some help?’ 

It’s an old lady, some innocent, un-accosting old lady and Mickey forces himself to soften because he definitely didn’t come here to terrorise retirees - even those practically asking for it by sneaking up on him. 

He shakes himself out, ‘Don’t fuckin’ do that to people, lady.’ 

‘You young men never ask for help- let me see your ticket-’ She says without waiting for permission before she’s reaching forward and snatching the ticket out of his hands. 

_‘Hey!’_ Mickey growls through gritted teeth. He has to stop himself from grabbing it back - he knows what it will look like if he starts wrestling something out of an elderly person’s hands. He doesn’t need to bring any more attention to himself. The last thing he needs is someone to call the cops on him and have them check out his record. 

Mickey reluctantly holds his ground as the old woman looks it an arm's length away from her face as she reads, ‘Oh you’re heading to Chicago- nice town, nice town.’ 

He rolls his eyes so hard it sends a spike of pain to his building headache, ‘Yeah, it’s a real _picnic-_ can I have my damn ticket back?’ 

‘You’re heading the wrong way- you’ve got to go through security.’ 

‘Great.’ 

‘Come- I’ll take you.’ 

‘No, no, look that’s nice but _no-’_ He tries to protest but there’s a hand wrapping around his elbow, nails digging deep. ‘Fuck, you’ve got a _grip_.’ He mutters. 

She directs him with a firm hand all the way through to security, tutting under her breath when he huffs over having to take his shoes off and all the shit out of his pockets. He’s lucky he didn’t bring a bag or anything, he can’t imagine how stressful this shit can get with the crap people bring along. 

He doesn’t make it through the metal detector the first time round - of course he doesn’t - so he ends up having to be patted down by some guy with a greasy moustache and way _too_ eager hands. Miraculously, Mickey makes it through without having to knee the guy in the balls. 

‘This is where I leave you- you’re heading that way.’ She says, waving a hand in the opposite direction. 

‘Right.’ He says, because even though she’s been a pain in the ass, it’s been nice to have someone who knows what they’re doing. 

‘You go- you go get your girl-’’ She says, and it’s sickly sweetness drips off of him as she taps him firmly on the bicep. He swallows uncomfortably, but doesn’t say anything. ‘That’s what you’re doing right? You’ve got that energy about you.’

‘I-’ Mickey rubs a finger into his eye and sighs, ‘Him.’ 

He doesn’t know what makes him correct her, he’d usually let those things slide, but what he’s doing right now is a _big deal_ and it’s because of Ian and it suddenly feels important to him to vocalise it. 

It’s important for the universe to know it. 

Her face breaks into a smile, ‘Well aren’t you a surprise… go get _him_ then.’ 

‘Whatever.’ Mickey says apathetically, even though he can’t stop something habitual igniting inside him because _she doesn’t care_. 

The lady says nothing more but pats him lightly on the cheek when he’s too slow to dodge out of her way, then turns and wanders off in the opposite direction. It occurs to him that he doesn’t even know her name.

What the fuck? Today is so fucking _weird_. 

Mickey looks down at his ticket - _it’s a boarding pass,_ the woman had corrected him sharply - and it says GATE 21, which is apparently where he needs to head. It takes him a second after he walks the wrong way the first time and has to double back on himself, but eventually he finds himself in a section under a big ‘21’ and he can see there’s an airplane out the window so he reckons he’s in the right place. 

Mickey flops down into one of the rows of chairs and lets his head fall into his hands. He wonders where Ian is right now, which state he’s thousands of miles above as he gets closer and closer to Illinois. It’s corny as shit, he reckons, that he’s chasing Ian across the sky and he wonders what Ian’s going to think when he finds out. 

He ain’t gonna let Mickey live this shit down. 

Mickey smiles fondly at himself, and imagines Ian’s a pretty easy flyer with his ability to always take everything on the chin. Ian’s adaptable. He’s properly relaxed right now, eyes closed, earbuds in. Mickey warms at the thought. 

Is Ian thinking of him? 

Ian doesn’t know he’s here. Does he think he’s back home already? 

Half an hour passes or so, Mickey isn’t sure, now that there’s no clock hanging over him, the countdown’s done and at zero, time passes slowly. Mickey's stomach rumbles angry and he realises he’s not eaten anything since the Chinese the night before so he reluctantly buys a premade sandwich at a kiosk that costs him $8. 

He doesn’t touch it. 

The seats are him start to fill slowly as people mill around waiting absentmindedly. 

_‘Boarding flight DL1744 to Chicago O’Hare International will start in 15 minutes.’_ A voice from nowhere informs him and he looks down at his ticket to check, and yes, that’s his flight the number displayed - he’s getting better at this airport thing. 

Eat your heart out, Northsiders. 

People start to line up shortly after the announcement and Mickey joins the back of the mass of passengers because he figures he might as well follow the people that look like they know what they’re doing. He stands there for a few minutes before they start to get directed into different lines or groups, he isn’t really paying much attention as he walks forward.

He shows his ticket and his ID to some woman who smiles at a little too widely and tells him to enjoy his flight. He nods wordlessly as he passes - all he’s fucking done today is _nod_. 

They go down this strange tunnel, passenger after passenger and it all feels a little sci-fi for him, but he figures no one else is finding it weird, so it must be pretty normal. The plane is mostly full already by the time he actually gets onto it, and a weird childish rush floods through him, he never thought he’d actually ever _be_ on a plane and yet it looks like all the films, tv shows and pictures he’s seen. 

If only the scrappy little 7 year old Mickey who watched the skies longingly could see him now. 

He flops down into _15C_ , the seat he’s told he’s occupied by his ticket (again, getting better at this flying stuff), and the rest of his row is full so he clicks his seat belt together and closes his eyes. 

Mickey manages to zone out for the most part whilst the rest of the passengers get their shit together, he doesn’t pay attention to the emergency demonstration, he knows that if this plane goes down it’s a _sign_ and he is definitely going with it. 

Things start to get complicated when the plane actually starts _moving_ , though. He can’t feel the plane move when you watch it on tv - so there’s nothing that could’ve prepared him for the way the plane jolts and the tension that runs up his spine along with it. His hands shoot out to clench around the arm rests in a quick, steadying movement. His tattooed knuckles whiten. He breathes in deeply and counts to ten. 

The plane’s engine rumbles. 

The guy next to him nudges him, ‘Bad flyer?’ he asks with a cautious laugh, his glasses perched low on his nose. He’s a plain looking businessman, slicked back hair, pressed suit and he’s got an ease about him that tells Mickey that he takes this flight regularly. He’s probably got a wife at home, 2.5 kids and a dog. A gym membership. A white picket fucking fence. 

The guy wipes his hands on his thighs and Mickey’s eyes flicker down. He’s wearing a thick, fancy watch - the type pre-prison Mickey wouldn’t have thought twice about stealing, but now? 

Well… he doesn’t know. 

It would be an easy $300 or so, though. 

He scowls, ‘Not a fuckin’ flyer.’ Mickey bites through gritted teeth. 

‘First time?’ The guy says incredulously, his face surprised because _of course_ he’s surprised that a guy at Mickey’s age has never been on a plane before. Privileged shit. 

‘Just cause you’ve clearly always had money coming out of your ass doesn’t mean the rest of us did.’ Mickey snaps, the age old inferiority complex that comes along with growing up in the Southside seeps through, his voice shakes with it.

‘You’ve never been on a plane before?’ 

‘No- I’ve never fuckin’ been on a plane before.’ He says, hoping the guy gets the the finality of _shut the fuck up and get off my dick_ in his tone. He turns himself away in an attempt to avoid any questions though he can feel the guy’s eyes digging into the back of his neck. 

The plane moves quickly down the runway and they ascend into the air with a jolt, Mickey holds his breath the entire time until they level out and he’s upright again. 

The majority of the plane ride is torturous - he doesn’t know who the _fuck_ likes doing this for fun, but he sure as hell ain’t doing it again any time soon. He’s taking the bus back to New York if shit hits the fan, that’s for certain. People actually sleep on these things? What part of hurtling through the air in a tin _box_ is supposed to be relaxing? 

He _does_ spend a good 20 minutes straining like an idiot in an attempt to see out of the window of the row opposite him - he thinks he must look like an idiot but in his defence, he’s never been this _high_ before and it doesn’t...seem real. 

He doesn’t think his head has quite caught up with what he’s actually doing. There’s no turning back now. 

Mickey’s given a free bag of chips that he doesn’t eat, his stomach is flip flopping enough without something else to add to it so he drops them to the floor and closes his eyes.

The pilot comes over the intercom and statically explains something about a _‘descent’_ and _‘thank you for choosing Delta’_ but Mickey misses half of it because a baby starts to cry in the row over. 

Things start happening rapidly after that, the hostesses pour down the aisles, asking them robotically to _make sure everyone has their seat belts fastened_ , _window guards up_ and _tables away_. Everyone around him seems to act on impulse, following the routine deftly and it reminds him how out of place he is. 

‘We’ll be landing soon, Sir.’ One of them says to him when they stop at his aisle, and all Mickey can do is acknowledge it with tipped head because he’s barely fucking moved the entire flight. 

_Soon_. 

Fuck, here it goes. 

The city lights in the window opposite start to get closer, he can’t see them very well because people are leaning forward and blocking his view but even he can conclude that means they’re almost there. Something in the engine shifts, the rumble gets louder and he can feel them dropping down in the sky. 

Mickey holds his breath and the plane touches down on the runway with a stuttered jolt. 

He’s back in Chicago. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand there it is! 
> 
> a little bit of house keeping:  
> \- yes, you may have noticed i have added a final chapter number - this is very tentative, i'm not sure if the next one will be the last one but just know that we're in the homestretch! <3  
> \- vic just finished her [ wonderful season 6 rewrite ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredavatar/pseuds/tiredavatar) \- it deserves all the love in the world so go check it out.  
> \- [lovesong by the cure](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ks_qOI0lzho) is the song that plays on the radio. if you're unfamiliar with it, go give it a listen - everything about it makes me go a little crazy and i probably listened to it at least 20 times whilst writing this.  
> \- i made a fic rec blog! it's got a massive navigation page so you can filter through tropes you like easily (ao3 algorithms suck!), you can follow it [ HERE](https://gallavich-ficrec.tumblr.com/navi) (please feel free to message me with your favourite fics!)  
> \- find me on [ twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian) and [ tumblr](https://oforamuse.tumblr.com)
> 
> comments and kudos are always appreciated but thanks again for reading, big love to you all!
> 
> xoxo


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey - sorry about this taking forever, i was pretty distracted by the current events in the world and unmotivated to write. 
> 
> as always, thank you to my wonderful, wonderful friends:  
> [michelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statichearts/pseuds/statichearts), [vic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredavatar/pseuds/tiredavatar), [fiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningHaski/pseuds/LightningHaski) and [taylor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boneached)! I am so lucky to have your constant support. 
> 
> thank you to michelle, again in particular, for beta-ing and helping me when i feel like my brain is melting. 
> 
> this is it pals, i hope you enjoy it!

Mickey relies purely on adrenaline and anxiety to get him through the airport’s security line and out the other side in one piece. It’s late - or really early, depending how he thinks of it - by the time he’s sitting on the El and the carriages are relatively deserted but he can’t help the urge to sit up straight every single time the doors open and someone new enters. There’s a tightness in his chest where he _knows_ he’s being paranoid, but his dad has eyes everywhere, and Mickey’s got no doubt word will get back to him, wherever he is, by tomorrow. 

Mickey needs to prepare himself for whatever fall out he’s going to have to deal with. Being back in Chicago means looking over his shoulder every time he turns a corner, it means stiff spines and clenched fists. That freedom he was granted by New York no longer applies, and he needs to be ready. 

But…it also means Ian. 

Ian. He’s doing this for Ian. 

_IanIanIanIanIanIan-_

Mickey repeats his name like a mantra in his head. 

He’s doing it for himself. 

He’s doing this because he’s spent too fucking long being apart from the man he loves and he can’t _do it_ anymore. 

He also, however, doesn’t want to end up back in prison, so that’s a whole other thing to consider. 

Mickey’s exhausted - turns out air travel is _draining_ \- and he would’ve probably fallen asleep on the El, lulled into slumber by the familiarity of the tracks, had he not been so fucking anxious. 

He’s here, okay, cool. 

What the fuck does he do now? 

He hadn’t really...considered this far ahead since he spent the majority of the last few hours hurtling through the air and levelling his breathing in an attempt not to pass out from the stress - but now he’s _here_ and he needs to figure his shit out. 

The realisation that he literally has no plan except _go back to Chicago_ sets in as the train crosses into the Southside, and now that he’s back, Mickey feels incredibly underprepared. 

Where does he even fucking start? He has literally the clothes on his back, his wallet and a shitty, unusable phone. 

He rubs his hands down the front of his thighs, they’re sweaty despite the cold and his knee bounces anxiously. 

Ian never mentioned to him the location of his station or even the company name he works for, and had his phone been working Mickey may have even bitten the bullet and called Lip or Mandy, but considering it’s still showing no signs of life, it’s a moot point. 

Somewhat reluctantly, he heads towards Canaryville. 

He gets off the El and walks quickly, his hands shoved deep into his jacket’s pockets in an attempt to both steady them and warm them up. It’s fucking cold out, and he’s the idiot who’s only in a jacket because he forgot to grab his coat before he dropped everything to come back here. 

Walk takes less time than he remembers, but perhaps that’s the spike in nervous energy running through his veins skewing his judgement. Before he knows it he’s turning a familiar block, walking across the street and there is it. 

The outside of the Gallagher house looks the exact same as it always has. The peeling paint, cracked windows, random old furniture in the front yard - it’s all familiar. 

The porch. The stairs. The gate. 

Mickey hasn’t been back here since… 

_This is it, this is you breaking up with me-_

His hand grip the chain link fence, steadying himself. It’s good, he’s all good. 

Maybe if Mickey tells himself it enough, he’ll believe it. 

There’s a light on upstairs in Ian’s old bedroom - the one he shared with his siblings and they’d squeeze into that small bed, pressed up _so_ close to one another - which doesn’t surprise Mickey in the slightest. That house was never quiet, never fully rested. Gallaghers didn’t know how to rest. It was pretty much a guarantee someone would be up at any one time throughout the night, he can’t imagine that’s changed too much in the last ten years. 

His feet itch to _move_ and he’s fucking exhausted, so he takes a deep breath and pushes the the gate open. Mickey gets to the front door and stares at the wood for a second, before deciding he’s being _ridiculous_ and knocks with the back of his knuckles. The worst that could happen is none opens up the door and he'll have to crack a window or something - it’s nothing he hasn’t done before. 

He gives it a second before trying again, his fist raised when the door swings open. 

Mickey steps back. Lip stares at him and Mickey thinks it’s the first time he’s seen genuine shock on the other man’s face. 

‘What- _Mickey?_ ’ 

He swallows, and shifts his weight from foot to foot.

‘Yeah.’ 

There’s a pause and Mickey shoves his hands back into his pockets partly as a distraction but mainly because they really are fucking _cold_. 

‘You’re kidding me.’ Lip says, his eyebrows raised in combination with a small impressed smirk on his face. ‘Ian know you’re here?’ 

Mickey shakes his head, drained of everything. ‘Can I come in? Freezin’ my nuts off out here.’ 

Lip shrugs and steps back to allow Mickey entry into the Gallagher home.

He hesitates for a second, just a millisecond, but it’s enough for Lip to catch it because they both know how long it’s been, what it means for him to be here, and then his cheeks flush hotly and he’s _embarrassed_. It shouldn’t be a big deal, none of this should be, and yet it _is_. 

Lip drops a bag of trash out onto the porch then closes the door. 

‘Ian called me from the airport-’ Lip says over his shoulder as he walks past him and through the house into the kitchen, ‘He was… pretty messed up, man.’ 

‘Yeah, wasn’t so fuckin’ peachy for me either.’ He rubs at his eyes, pressing his thumb and index finger in hard. If only his head would stop _pounding_. 

Lip walks towards the fridge and Mickey slides into the chair at the end of the kitchen table and it makes him stop for a second before slumping back, it’s almost as if he never left. Like he was here yesterday, not years prior. 

It’s a weird situation for the both of them. 

Lip turns away from the open fridge door and holds a tall boy out in front of him, ‘You want a beer?’ 

Mickey grimaces and something nags in his brain before he automatically holds a hand out to accept, ‘You...gonna be good with that?’ 

No one’s explicitly said it to him, but it doesn’t take a genius to pick up on the fact whenever he’s seen him, Lip’s been avoiding alcohol. Mickey isn’t gonna do that to him - he’s not a complete asshole, despite what some may think. Plus, Ian would kill him. 

Lip’s eyebrows rise but he doesn’t comment, so Mickey takes that as an _okay_ and accepts the beverage with a nod. 

The glass is cool against his calloused, anxious hands and as he brings it to his lips, he tries to remember the last time he was sitting at this table knocking back a cold one. 

He...can’t. The last few months before prison get pretty murky for him - years of suppression does that to a person, and his head hurts too much to think about it in greater depth. 

It must’ve been somewhere close to the end though, in those handful of weeks before Ian took Yevgeny and things _really_ took a turn for the worst (or well, even worse). Though they were living at Mickey’s place for pretty much the majority of that time, they’d come over a few nights a week to the Gallagher’s and crack open a beer, watch a movie, eat dinner - Fiona used to insist on it, when she was around. It took him a couple weeks of warming up for his spine to relax and his fists to unclench, but eventually he found himself quietly looking forward to those busy evenings over lukewarm junk food and iced Tall Boys. 

That all came to end though and like most things, he’s not thought about those evenings for a very long time. 

Lip looks at him for a moment as he sips, then turns to open the fridge again in a slow controlled movement. Mickey rubs at his eyes, needing a moment to just _breathe_ and dark spots dance behind his eyelids. When he opens them again, Lip’s standing next to him. 

‘You look like shit.’ He says, sliding a plate of cold pizza in front of him. It’s clearly a few hours old, maybe days, and the cheese has hardened into the tomato sauce but Mickey isn’t about to complain - after the long day he’s had, it looks fucking delicious. 

‘Thanks.’ Mickey grunts, shoving a slice into his mouth hungrily and eating it messily. He sucks the cold sauce off his fingers, and Lip eyes him curiously from where he’s leant against the kitchen counter. 

‘So Ian seriously doesn’t know?’ 

‘Phone broke.’ He says, swallowing, whilst he considers. He starts at the next slice and chews it down completely before continuing. ‘Didn’t tell anyone- couldn’t.’ 

Lip makes a sound at the back of his throat, ‘Impressive, man.’ 

‘What?’ Mickey drawls, his eyebrows caught halfway between a surprised raise and a scowl. 

‘Didn’t think you had it in you.’ Lip shrugs, his lips quirking with a small, amused grin. Mickey flounders for a second, unsure of what _exactly_ he’s talking about - he doesn’t know where to take his response - but Lip waves his hand dismissively and continues, ‘You’re a soft motherfucker.’ 

Mickey sucks in a deep breath and lets it fall out in stuttered bursts between tight lips. 

‘Whatever.’ He says after a second. 

Mickey shifts in his seat, he thinks it’s new - or maybe he can’t remember it? The chair feels different under his thighs, but there’s easily the chance it could also all be in his head - caught up in the idea of being _here_ and overwhelmed by the slightest detail. 

Mickey licks his lips, taking a pause with the pizza. 

‘How’s the kid?’ 

Lip nods towards the back door, ‘Sleeping, thank _fuck-’_ He says with a short laugh. He stops, catching onto Mickey’s confused expression - he hadn’t even realised he was wearing one but he can feel the deep crinkles in his forehead and brings a self conscious hand up to rub them down. 

Lip gestures towards the back door with a nudge of his head, ‘Tami and I are living out back in an RV.’ He explains with a yawn, like that any fucking sense to Mickey, but sure. 

The guy looks tired.

‘Ah.’ Mickey says anyway, swallowing down a mouthful of cold pizza and forcing himself to bite back an embarrassing moan because _God_ , it really is the best thing he’s tasted in days. He gives it a second, allowing his stomach to settle, then continues. ‘How’s that working out for you?’ 

Lip scoffs with a rub at his jaw, ‘It’s… working.’ 

‘Trouble in paradise?’ Mickey asks, wiping a greasy hand on his jeans and bringing the beer up to his lips to sip. The beer is cool and familiar, he drinks half it down quickly. 

‘Paradise… well, it’s uh, it’s something.’ Lip says with a humorous laugh. 

Mickey eyes him, ‘Something.’ He repeats, egging him on. 

Lip looks at him, then to the stairs, then back to him, ‘You and Ian?’ 

There’s a pause. The high trill of a siren can be heard outside in the distance. 

‘Something.’ Mickey says after a second, looking away from Lip to pick at some of the cheese on the slice in front of him, his fingers needing to keep busy. 

He hopes they’re a bit more than just _something_ , considering he just dragged his ass back home… no, he knows they’re more than just _something_. Much more. They’ve always been so much more, even back when he wouldn’t let himself admit it. 

They’re not just _something_. 

He just can’t find the words right now. 

‘Happy you’re here, Mick.’ Lip says, almost like he heard and he’s responding to Mickey’s inner turmoil. ‘Ian’s gonna be too.’ 

Mickey nods.

He’s happy to be here too, but he doesn’t say it - that would be _too_ much, even for him - and they sit in silence for a second before the moment passes. 

Lip claps his hands together and pushes himself up off the table, ‘Look- I’m gonna head to bed. I’m beat.’ He gestures head towards the back staircase, ‘Ian’s been sleeping in Frank’s old room- you could crash? He’s not gonna be home for a couple hours.’ 

Mickey rubs a hand down his face, feeling gross and his pits are sweaty as shit, he doesn’t want to smell like crap when Ian gets home, ‘Gonna shower.’ 

Lip nods, ‘Make yourself at home- you’re good at that.’ He says with a smirk, and there’s nothing venomous behind it at all, it’s… fond?

It’s strange, Mickey thinks as he chews, that they’re finally at a point in their relationship where Lip can crack jokes like that and Mickey doesn’t feel the creeping defensive urge to fight back. They’ve crossed that _line_. A line they had been balancing along all those years ago. 

He does, however, roll his eyes and fire off a polite, ‘Fuck _off_.’, because not everything is out of the window. 

‘Night, Mickey.’ He says, then Lip leaves, ducking out of the back door with a hand held upwards in a small wave and it’s a little awkward but friendly enough for almost 3am. The poor guy must be exhausted. 

Then he’s left alone in the Gallagher’s kitchen for the first time in years. 

Everything about the inside of the house is pretty much the same, the wallpaper is peeling slightly more, there’s a new couch and they’ve got a different washing machine, but other than that? It might as well be 10 years prior. 

There’s still a dent on the top of the table where Mickey had managed to drop a hot pan in a scramble to make Ian dinner once. The tiny marking, only visible if you really know where to look for it, makes him squeeze his eyes shut. It was just before the summer when Ian had finally started showing signs of pulling himself out of his first depressive slump and eating full meals. Mickey had wanted to do _something_ but in shaky, and possibly over eager excitement, he’d burnt his hand and the sauce had spilled everywhere when he’d pulled it back dramatically. They’d laughed about it later with Ian’s hands on his whilst he helped clear the mess up, but he’d left a permanent marking on the table’s surface. 

It’s _barely there_ but it’s been _there_ , etched into the place the Gallaghers sit and drink and talk every single day whilst he’s been away. Mickey doesn’t know how that makes him feel but he knows it makes him feel _something_. 

He dumps his plate into the sink and heads upstairs. 

He finds a towel in the cupboard, the same place they’ve always been kept, and strips off in the bathroom. He tries to keep as quiet as possible as he moves - he doesn’t need to be that dick who wakes the entire house up. 

Mickey steps into the shower and everything is the fucking _same_. The shampoo, the soaps, the shitty dripping tap - none of it’s changed, which… is probably more endearing than it should be. 

It’s like, even though he wasn’t here, even though everything else in his life took a nosedive and changed, there’s small comfort to be found in the fact some things stayed the same whilst he was gone. 

He knows his way around this shower like a pilot flies a plane, it’s known and in his bones. The water pressure is shit and the temperature is never perfect, but just being back here makes him want to cry. It’s familiar, it’s welcoming, it’s a fucking _shower_ and it’s making his chest tight. 

This is going to be a rough… week? Month? Undetermined number of future days? Thinking about it too much makes his head hurt. 

He doesn’t stay under the water for long, but just enough time to scrub off the stale feeling of travel off his skin. 

Mickey goes to the room he used to know as Frank’s, even though he was barely around when Mickey was about, and it’s a little strange to associate Ian with a room that isn’t packed full of boys. He’s never actually been in here, he steered clear of Frank and everything he involved whenever he was, unfortunately, around. Everything in the room has a layer of untouched-ness about it - like an Ikea showroom after hours - which is a little weird until he remembers that Ian hasn’t actually been _home_ yet and Mickey’s probably one of the handful of people to come into this room since Ian left for New York. 

Mickey starts to tiptoe around the room, stepping hesitantly with careful hands as so not to mess anything up… then he realises he’s being stupid and Ian wouldn’t give a fuck, so he starts looking for something to wear. He pulls open one of Ian’s drawers and stares at the somewhat folded (but mostly tossed) clothes. Sure, chasing Ian back to Chicago could be considered by some as… _romantic_ , but the reality of not even bringing a clean pair of underwear or his tooth brush with him kinda sucks.

He chooses a relatively smaller pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that he recognises from before - it’s much too big but it’s nice to be out of the stuff he’s been wearing for the last few hours. They smell the exact same as they always have, it’s a generic own brand detergent - all the Gallagher’s clothes smell like that, and at one point, his did too - but it makes his heart clench. It’s stupid things like that he didn’t realise he was missing and that now he has them back everything feels _full_ again. 

Mickey sits on Ian’s bed for a while, doing nothing but staring at the wall until he starts to get itchy and _needs_ to move because he doesn’t even have a phone to scroll through and as much as he tries to let it not be, being in here alone is kinda weird. So he pushes himself up off the mattress and figures he might as well head back downstairs to wait, but gets stopped halfway down the hall, caught with one foot towards the stairs. Carl is halfway between the bathroom and the boys’ bedroom, there’s a sleepy smile on his face. 

‘ _Yo-_ Mickey, I didn’t know you were coming back too!’ Carl says, slapping a hand out for what Mickey assumes is to grab in greeting. 

‘I...didn’t know either.’ He says tiredly, because he doesn’t know what it is, whether it’s Carl or his conversation with Lip or being back here, he’s feeling truthful in the early morning hours. He accepts Carl’s hand and they do that weird _bro_ hand thing before Mickey drops it quickly. 

‘Like the old days, man-’ Carl grins, then he ducks into the bathroom and leaves Mickey standing awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot at the top stairs. 

The old days, indeed. 

Mickey doesn’t want to stay there listening to Carl pee like a creep, so he walks slowly down the back staircase, his hand trailing along the wall as he goes. He hops on his right foot to avoid the third step from the bottom because he knows it _squeaks_ and lands deftly at the bottom on his other foot. 

‘ _Holy fuck._ ’ 

Mickey’s head snaps up. 

Ian. 

Ian’s in the Gallagher kitchen. Ian’s here and staring at him wide eyed in full EMT get up, one hand clenched around his phone, the other hanging onto the strap of his backpack, mouth gaping. There are dark rings under his eyes, his hair is ruffled like he’s been constantly running his fingers through it, and he looks like he’s on the verge of passing out on the spot.

But, fuck, he’s beautiful. 

Mickey’s eyes flicker down to his suitcase leaning against the wall, the one he last saw when they were both in NYC. Their goodbye seems like years ago - and in some ways, it was. 

But they’re both _here_. 

Ian stares at him and Mickey watches his throat move as he attempts to piece something together, Mickey can feel it, the itch to say something, to scream something, to cry, to laugh, to crumble over and pass out. But he doesn’t do any of those things. 

‘I…’ Mickey tries, but truthfully, he doesn’t know what to say, now that he’s here. Now that he’s done his big grand gesture of _yeah, I’m here_ \- it hadn’t actually occurred to him how this moment was going to pan out, Ian seeing him here, them being back _here_ together. His fingers twitch at his sides and he’s caught between the swirling, low anxiety of _what if this was a mistake?_ and wanting to reach forward and take, take, take. 

Then Ian’s on him, backpack slipping off his shoulder and slamming down to the ground with a smack. 

Flat palms come at him and Ian shoves at his shoulders aggressively, but he’s smiling so wide, so wide and open, ‘What the _fuck_? What- what the fuck?’ 

Mickey grabs a hold of his fists, and leans in close, nose bumping nose, and they kiss. It’s slow, drawn out and exhausting, it’s _home_. 

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Ian whispers against his lips, his breath hot and inviting, and _here_. Mickey wants to feel it against his lips, his skin, his bones for the rest of his life. 

‘I just.’ It comes out breathy and tired, but there’s no mistaking the truth to his words, he shrugs, ‘I did what I wanted to, man.’ 

Ian’s mouth breaks into a smile, _‘Jesus.’_

His arms wrap around Mickey’s torso and they pull in towards each other, impossibly closer, and Mickey’s head comes to rest in the curve of Ian’s neck, slotting into place like the final piece of an _almost_ done puzzle. 

Then suddenly… 

It’s complete. 

Mickey hand’s slip down and slot themselves around Ian’s hips, his fingers dusting the top of his jeans. They stand there, both men drained, and hold each other, just holding. Holding onto everything they’ve wanted, needed, desired and begged for. Mickey’s never letting go and he thinks… he thinks, no, he _knows_ Ian isn’t going to either. 

There’s a period of silence, coloured only by the sound of their breathing, then Ian breaks. 

‘I can’t fuckin’ believe you.’ Ian laughs softly into his hair, and Mickey buries himself deeper into Ian’s skin, silently cringing at being exposed for the fucking loved up _idiot_ he is. Ian continues, his voice gentle but confused, ‘...I texted you before I got onto the plane… texted you after. You didn’t-’ 

‘Broke my phone.’ Mickey mumbles, because that’s a whole other can of worms he needs to deal with, but he guesses he does owe Ian of all people an explanation - everyone else can wait. ‘Couldn’t text anyone.’ 

Ian pulls himself back, his hand gently cupping the back of Mickey’s head, and just _looks_ at him. 

‘You’re such a dick.’ Ian says with a tired grin, he drops his gaze down to Mickey’s lips, back up to his eyes and then looks at him seriously. ‘This is it though, right. You’re here.’ 

‘I…’ He breathes, ‘I’m here.’ 

The smiled kiss pressed against his lips is even sweeter, deeper, needier than the first. 

Ian’s hand slips down his arm and tangles their fingers together. 

They drag their heavy feet upstairs and Ian leaves him in his room with a kiss to the side of his head, ‘Text Mandy.’ He says, pressing his phone into Mickey’s hand and then he’s off to shower. 

He hears the water kick on, and Mickey shuffles himself back against the wall at the head of the bed, tossing the phone back and forth in his hands. He unlocks Ian’s phone, the passcode being the same as it always was - Liam’s birthday - and his thumb hangs over Mandy’s name. Without meaning to, he catches the end of her and Ian’s last conversation ‘... _i’ll see you soon.’_ \- before he gives in with a deep sigh and starts to type something out. Mickey writes and deletes and writes and deletes until he finally settles on something that doesn’t make his head hurt. 

**4:01am to Mandy**

**‘It’s mickey. Dont put out a search warrant. I’m in chicago.’**

Mickey looks at it, his thumb an inch above the send button and feeling the nag of dissatisfaction, then fires off one more. 

**4:02am to Mandy**

**‘Broke my phone but call u tomorrow.’**

Then he shuts the phone off and tosses it down the other end of the bed, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Mandy starts replying now - he’s pretty sure she’ll be asleep, but just to be on the safe side because he can’t deal with that right now. 

Tomorrow is a whole other world he’s going to have to deal with, but he’s too fucking exhausted, and as he falls back against Ian’s sheets, his bones feel heavy and worn. 

Mickey lets his eyes close, even just for a second, because after the 24 hours he’s had, he’s fucking deserved it. 

He must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing he knows, Ian’s sliding in behind him, his skin damp and Mickey lets his fingers be threaded through his, locked and tight. 

‘Thank you… I can’t fuckin’ believe you.’

It’s whispered so, so quietly into the dark that it’s barely there. But it’s there, it’s there and said with so much truth that it makes Mickey squeeze his eyes shut. He brings their conjoined hands up to his lips, and kisses Ian’s fingers softly. 

No. _Thank you_ , Mickey wants to say. 

Thank you for taking a chance on the scrappy little shit he used to be, the one who held him at arm’s length and treated him like crap. Thank you for understanding that treating him like crap was the only fucking way to _survive_ , at least in his mind back then, in a world that held him under water and gasping for air. 

Thank you for always giving and taking just as much, Mickey says silently, thank you for pushing and pushing and pushing until he cracked and finally let himself spill open between them. 

Thank you for fighting for him, for them, and for himself when Mickey wasn't there to do it for him. 

He doesn’t know who he’d be without Ian in his life, where he’d be or _what_ he’d be, the thought alone is so ugly he doesn’t give it a chance to come to light, stubbing it out instantly like a half smoked cigarette in an overused ashtray. 

He wants to tell him all those things - but he thinks Ian knows. 

‘Go to sleep.’ Mickey says instead, then he twists in Ian’s arms and kisses him firmly, hoping that the assurance that this is _it_ is being planted against his lips. This is it. Ian hums happily and the vibrations send something warm right down to every joint and sinew. Things feel for once in his life like they’re going to be… _okay_. 

He turns back and settles himself against Ian’s broad chest, the comfort of knowing that this is where he’ll be when he wakes, where they’ll both be, sending them both almost instantly to sleep. 

* * *

Ian’s hushed voice is the first thing he hears when he wakes up, his bones and muscles heavy but somewhat well rested. Sleep was needed. He doesn’t open his eyes straight away, choosing instead keeping them closed whilst he basks in the feeling of Ian stroking his thumb across Mickey’s exposed elbow. For the first time in a long time, Mickey feels peaceful. He’s spent the last few years knocking his habit of waking up with a ramrod straight spine and breath caught halfway up his throat, his defences flaring before he even opens his eyes with a flicker. It used to happen regularly. Growing up a Milkovich meant he could wake up with any sort of threat looming over him as he slept blissfully ignorant, and more often than not it was his father’s twisted face he opened his eyes to, _get the fuck up- got you a job to do_ , he’d say before his eyes had even adjusted to the light. 

Back… _before_ , things were starting to change. Mickey wasn’t sleeping with so much riddled anxiety, he and Ian were living together at his place and Terry was locked up, far away from them, so for once, things felt _alright_ and Mickey was sleeping easier and easier. He was getting used to waking up slowly, Ian’s fingers threaded with his, their bodies pressed close - less and less, he felt like throwing his defences up as soon as he opened his eyes. 

Then Ian’s episode hit and as more and more worry set in, Mickey’s defences fired back up and months later when he found himself sleeping on a rough prison cot, there was no peace for him to find. 

But now? 

Mickey’s pretty damn peaceful. 

He can feel that Ian’s torso is ever just so twisted away from him, just enough that there’s an inch or so of space between them, and Mickey can hear the telltale garbled voice of a phone call. 

‘Yeah he’s here.’ 

Ian’s weight shifts on the mattress slightly and Mickey’s body dips towards him. He hears Ian laugh, one of those chesty, rough, early morning ones, ‘Still sleeping though… yeah, I know-’ 

He can hear the smile in Ian’s voice. Mickey smiles into his pillow.

God, he’s so fucking happy. 

When was the last time he woke up absolutely, completely and unabashedly happy? 

Ian’s thumb turns into his whole hand rubbing at his elbow, slow delicate circles, and Mickey reactively shifts his arm into the touch. He can’t help it, he’ll always lean into Ian. 

His hand stops and there’s a hitch in Ian’s breath, followed by a quickly whispered, ‘Gotta go- think he’s awake-’ and the sound of a phone being thrown towards the end of the bed. 

The mattress dips and lips are then being pressed into the back of his neck and Ian’s warm mouth speaks into his skin, ‘You awake?’ 

Mickey hums with a happy preen all the way down to his toes, ‘Am now.’ 

He stretches and shifts himself to face Ian and he can’t stop the curve of his lips as he does, because _fuck_ , he could really get used to this. He could really, truly, let himself get used to this. 

This. Him and Ian waking up in each other’s arms, the low late morning light in the room, scratchy cheap sheets against his naked skin. Yeah...

Ian slips an arm around him and pulls him close, positioning Mickey’s head in the curve of his armpit, ‘So- you’re here-’ He says. 

‘Yeah, thanks _Captain Obvious_.’ Mickey says, leaning up to give him a blank, playfully unimpressed look. His voice is gruff with lack of use, but the teasing shines through. 

‘Shut up, you know what I mean.’ Ian says plainly with a light flick to Mickey’s shoulder, ‘-you’re, you know. Fuck- _here_.’ 

‘I’m here.’ 

‘To stay.’ Ian says with a slightly raised inflection, and Mickey can’t work out if it’s posed as a question or a statement so he lets his eyebrows drop and he looks at him seriously. 

‘To stay.’ Mickey says, ‘You ain’t gettin’ rid of me now.’ 

‘Don’t want to.’ Ian says with a kiss to his hairline. Mickey feels the words right down to the marrow of his bones. He knows they’re true. ‘Never want to.’ 

‘Good.’ He responds, rubbing his fingers in his tired eyes. He groans because he could sleep for another few hours, ‘What are we doing up so early?’ 

‘I’ve still gotta go to work, Mick.’ Ian sighs, ‘Already skipped the first half of my shift this morning-’ 

‘You did?’ 

‘You think I was gonna have my ass out of bed at 7am when you’re here?’ Ian asks, jiggling his arm playfully under Mickey’s neck. He jerks his head towards the direction of his phone, ‘Sue, she said I had until 12-’ 

Mickey makes a disagreeable noise in the back of his throat and buries himself deeper into Ian’s side, ‘What’s the time then?’ 

‘Just gone 10.’ 

‘Too soon.’ He moans. Mickey wants to stay here forever. 

‘Well…’ Ian starts, and the edge in his voice tells Mickey he knows where this is going. ‘Just enough time…’ His hand slides lower and lower down his torso until he grips Mickey, his cock already halfway hard, wanting and waiting. 

Mickey can’t help but agree.

Ian fucks him slowly into the mattress, face to face, with Mickey’s knees pressed up to his shoulders and their hands intertwined above his head as they cry out. 

Neither of them bother to check whether the house is empty or not - neither one of them particularly care, and it’s not like they’ve haven’t both spent countless nights in this house with their heads pressed into pillows trying to block out the sounds of someone else’s fucking. 

Love making. 

It’s their turn, for once, they get to have this. They’re as loud as they want to be in ways they never were able to be before.

Afterwards, warm, sweaty and spent, Mickey curls up on Ian’s chest and Ian hands him his phone with a look that says, _you might as well get it over with_. His spine straightens with a sudden rush of tension but Ian is right, Mickey knows he is, he needs to get this over with, otherwise he’ll still be dealing with having one foot there and one foot here. He doesn’t want that. He’s here and he needs to be here completely. Sensing Mickey’s hesitation - because he knows, of course he knows - Ian’s fingers find his matted hair and gently thread through the strands as the first number dials, and the movement keeps him grounded as he tries to steady his breathing. 

‘...Hi.’ Mandy says after the phone clicks, connected. 

‘Hey. It’s Mick-’ 

Her breathing shifts. Mickey waits. 

‘I know… you at Ian’s?’ 

‘Yeah.’ 

Mandy makes an agreeable sound down the line, one those half way between a huff and the click of a tongue, ‘Want me to send you your stuff?’ She says after a second. 

It’s probably considered bad by some how much this surprises Mickey, the gesture, but he swallows and attempts to craft his response carefully, but it falls out in a grunt.

‘Don’t have to.’

‘You’re not gonna come back.’ She says bluntly, and the words hang there for a brief second, both of them knowing it doesn’t really hurt either of them - and both of them knowing that perhaps it should. Ian’s hand stills in his hair at Mickey’s silence and Mickey shoots him a look, _keep it up,_ but there’s something behind his eyes that tells him that he’s worried about Mickey’s response. That maybe, just maybe, this isn’t forever. 

‘Yeah.’ Mickey replies, his eyes fixed on Ian. See me, hear me, he’s saying. ‘I’m not coming back.’ 

Ian’s eyes flutter closed and Mickey feels his chest below him drop with a deep exhale - like there was a legitimate worry before, somewhere within Ian, that Mickey might go back to NYC after all of this. 

‘I’m not coming back.’ Mickey says again, tattooing the words into the foundations of the universe, rewriting whatever pre-written notion in the stars - he’s taking control now. He says it for himself, for Ian, for Mandy, for anyone else who doubts him. 

It’s final. Unchangeable and permanent. 

‘...Except, you know. To visit.’ Ian whispers into his temple, it breaks the heavy moment and Mickey rolls his eyes, good luck with that one, he wants to say, because he’ll _definitely_ be dragging his heels. 

‘You ain’t got much here.’ Mandy replies and Mickey assumes that she didn’t hear Ian’s comment, and well, if she did, she didn’t let on. No doubt she’d be elated if Ian visited her. 

‘Yeah.’ 

Mandy sighs, ‘I’m only sending clothes and important shit, though. Most of your shit is going on Craigslist- or Goodwill.’ 

Mickey laughs at that, but it trails off awkwardly. The moment is weirdly heavy, hanging there between them, and Ian’s hand picks up again comfortingly in his hair, ‘Whatever- I don’t care.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’ll send you the rest of my rent for the next month.’ Mickey says after a second, because he has to, because he’d be an asshole if he didn’t offer and he’s working on that. ‘I’ll Venmo it, or however the fuck that works.’ 

Ian squeezes his side in a quiet act of approval and Mickey flips him off with his free hand. 

Mandy snorts, ‘You fucking better.’ 

Silence falls and there’s nothing to be heard except their steady breathing and the electric twang of a long distance telephone line. 

‘Well, I gotta go.’ She says after a second and she swallows deeply down the line before continuing, ‘Pass me over to Ian? I know he’s there.’

He holds the phone out to Ian wordlessly, he knows he should say a goodbye, he _knows_ that’s what normal people do - it’s common decency to most, but he can’t find it in himself to let the words push themselves up and out. It’s another one of those things - the weird lines he doesn’t seem to know how to cross with his sister, and if he’s thinking correctly, she doesn’t know how to cross it to him either. 

Mickey lets his head back against Ian’s temple whilst he and Mandy talk, and closes his eyes. 

It should be painful, he thinks, cutting ties. Leaving his sister behind, leaving his job, leaving that _life_. 

It isn’t. 

Because this is his life, this _here_ , against Ian’s naked chest with his fingers in his hair and love in his heart, that’s where he’s always supposed to be. It’s just taken it’s time. 

It’s a good thing they’ve got more than enough of it now. 

Ian says his goodbyes to Mandy and Mickey shakes his head when he tries to hand it back to him to say his own. She’ll understand and he hopes that Ian does too. They’ll just never be those… kind of people. 

And that’s okay. 

Mickey calls his job next and quits on the spot. He finds the number after a quick search on google - his phone still showing absolutely no signs of life and Ian strokes his arm throughout the entire thing, his fingertips dusting the smattering of hair on his arm. His boss doesn’t mention anything about the fight he got into nights before, a fight that seems like weeks ago now given the amount of change that has happened since - he’s in Chicago for Christ’s sake. They don’t put up a huge argument, which is a relief because he’s dealt with enough in the last 48 hours - but really, what were they going to do anyway, and it’s not like Mickey cares if they were going to try. He hangs up and almost immediately regrets not asking his boss for Roy’s number. 

Ian hand stills, noticing the sudden shift in tension as Mickey lets the phone hang in his hands. He shakes Mickey’s arm. 

‘What’s up?’ He says, ‘They were cool with it, weren’t they?’ 

‘Yeah…’ Mickey drops the phone into his lap with a sigh, ‘...Should’ve got them to give me Roy’s number. Feels shitty he’ll turn up to work expecting me.’ 

Mickey can’t pinpoint the moment he started to _care_ about what Roy thought, when their relationship gained that upper level, but for some reason it happened and he can’t stop it nagging in his brain. 

Ian’s mouth twists as he thinks, then he leans over and wraps his both hands around Mickey’s wrists, letting them hang between them. It feels a little ridiculous, if Mickey’s honest, but there’s nothing in the world right now that will make him pull away from Ian’s touch. 

He smiles at him and gives his wrists a shake, ‘I guess we’re just gonna have to get your phone fixed.’ 

* * *

‘Gonna be late.’ Ian says, breaking from a quick _just because they can_ kiss over the kitchen counter. Their lips taste like sugar and the flavour of the off brand Pop-Tarts they’d eaten moments before lingers on their tongues. It wasn’t a breakfast of champions, but they didn’t have enough time to whip something up before Ian had to get to work and Mickey was more focused on Ian eating something with his meds than he was about culinary judgement. 

The house was empty - whether or not the rest of them had been around earlier, they never figured out - but right now, it’s just the two of them. 

The way it’ll always be. The two of them. 

‘Can’t you just…’ Mickey says with a waved, slightly sticky, hand, ‘You know…’ 

Ian rolls his eyes with a smile, ‘No, I can’t- but you could come meet me?’ 

‘Don’t want me around all of your work shit.’ Mickey says steadily, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his attempt to keep it casual and controlled failing with the stark self deprecation seeping through. ‘I can find something to keep me busy until you get home- ain’t gonna be sittin’ around.’ 

‘Yeah, Mick, I do.’ Ian says firmly, and Mickey wants to look away from his gaze because it burns in the best way, but he can’t draw himself away. Ian squares his shoulders, ‘I... I want you to meet them, I’ll text you the address.’ 

Mickey sighs audibly and his shoulders drop as he lets himself give in. ‘I...fine.’ He says with a swipe at his eyebrow, ‘I’ll meet you there.’ 

The low buzz of Ian wanting him around, of Ian wanting him to meet his friends, the people that have never met him or had anything to do with them from _before,_ sits warm in his gut. It’s a solid and immovable fact. Ian wants him in his life. 

He knows this. 

It’s just nice to be reminded. 

‘Finish at 7, don’t be late.’ He says with a firm squeeze at Mickey’s shoulder. Ian throws his EMT jacket over his shoulders - Mickey never thought he’d have a thing for a guy in uniform (considering the fact he hates most uniformed authorities, and well, they hate him too) but _shit_ , Ian looks fucking delectable. 

It’s a good thing he’s got to get to work because Mickey’s unsure they’d get anything productive done today, if the way his dick twitches in his pants is anything to go by. 

Mickey shoves a playful hand into his side and pushes him towards the door, ‘Alright- I got it, get out of here-’ 

Ian hums happily and shrugs his coat on over his uniform - Mickey’s sad to see it covered up but it’s still mid-February and he doesn’t want his… boyfriend? He guesses? Sounds pretty juvenile at this point, but it’s whatever, regardless, because it’s Ian and he doesn’t want... _his Ian_ freezing his tits off. 

Ian stops at the door out to the backyard and turns back, he’s got a small yet blinding smile, ‘Hey.’ He says softly. 

‘Hey yourself.’ Mickey says with an edge of weariness, unsure where he’s going with this - he really _will_ be late if he doesn’t move his ass, and Mickey doesn’t want him having to do any extra hours to make up for it. 

‘You’re here.’ 

Mickey softens. Yeah, he is. 

He’s feeling pretty proud of himself, to be honest, but he’s not going to say that out loud - he doesn’t need to, the low blush is already evident in his cheeks. Ian smirks at him knowingly and points at the spare key sitting on the top of the kitchen counter. 

Mickey doesn’t want to read into the gesture too much. Ian had mumbled against his lips something about not knowing when someone else will be home so Mickey should use the spare key but… it felt like so much more. 

A key for Mickey. 

A key for him to be able to come and go as he pleases because this is _his_ home too now. 

They haven’t discussed it yet, not properly, but it bubbles low in his gut. 

‘Go to work.’ Mickey huffs, staring at him with a fondly unimpressed and his heart warm, flip flopping in his chest. Ian doesn’t move, his feet remaining planted in their place as he looks at him like a dopey idiot with that idiotically _beautiful_ face. ‘ _Go, asshole.’_

Ian throws him one more grin, then ducks out the Gallagher’s back door. 

Mickey lets go of the breath he didn’t realise he was holding and swings back on his chair. His eyes follow a crack on the ceiling for a moment as he ponders the position he’s found himself in. No one else is home and Ian’s going to be at work for the next few hours, he doesn’t want to be sitting around twiddling his thumbs like some house wife but… 

Is he ready to go face that world alone? 

Chicago? 

The thought alone makes him want to slap himself, or at least dig his nails into his palm, and he knows a younger version of himself would agree. He’s not scared, he isn’t - he can’t be scared of somewhere that is so intrinsically rooted into his foundations… he’s just not completely prepared, per say. 

So he needs to prepare himself. 

* * *

His clothes are going to take a week or so to arrive - probably even longer, cause he can’t imagine Mandy’s dragging herself down to the post office today - so he figures he should probably start with at least picking up a couple basics. There’s a part of him that can't actually believe he up and left New York with the clothes on his back, his wallet and a useless iPhone, but another part of him knows that’s exactly what he would do so he’s left on this weird fence of how to approach things. 

There’s a voice at the back of his head that says, _you could just go home and see what’s left-_

Ha. 

He squashes that thought pretty quickly. Much like in his parole years, he’s already decided he’ll be avoiding his childhood home pretty much at all costs - or at least as much as he can. There’s probably fuck all of his left behind anyway - it’s not worth the heartbreak and anger, dredging all that shit back up, and knowing his family they probably sold most of his shit off and set fire to the rest of it. 

Ian left him a couple of items of clothing on the bed for him to try on, ‘I can’t believe you literally have nothing with you.’ He laughed, throwing a pair of balled up boxers at Mickey’s head once they eventually pulled themselves up and out of bed. ‘Sorry I didn’t pack a fuckin’ bag before chasing you across-’ Mickey had tried to throw back, but didn’t get to finish because Ian tackled him by the waist and sent them tumbling back down onto the bed. 

Now, Mickey stares at himself in the mirror. The marks on his face from a few nights before are less obvious, but still visible - he looks less like a beaten up, raw piece of shit though, so that’s a start. There’s a dark shadow of stubble cast along his jaw and paired with the loosely fitted clothing, he looks more rugged than he has done in a while - so, hey, maybe there is the chance of no one recognising him here (he doesn’t bank on it though - give the fact it’s the _Southside_ and he’s a _Milkovich_ ). 

Mickey swirls some mouthwash he found on the top shelf in the bathroom around his mouth and decides that his first port of call has to be a toothbrush because, fuck, even the best Listerine can’t get rid of the furry teeth feeling in his mouth and it’s making his skin itch. He spits it back out into the sink and splashes some cold water onto his face. 

He could get the El to a mall nearby, or some shit like that, cause really - he needs new underwear - so eventually he settles on borrowing one of the Gallagher’s coats, maybe Lip’s?, he doesn’t know, and trudges down towards the El.

Mickey goes his usual route, passing storefronts and crossing junctions he’s known all of his life. He tugs Lip’s coat tighter, shoving his hands into the pockets. 

There’s the fine line he’s balancing, between trying to avoid his dad and the tightness in his chest that, but also… being home. 

Chicago fits on him like a glove, and no matter how hard he spent trying to deny it, these are his streets. 

He shouldn’t be fucking afraid to walk down these streets. 

He _isn’t_ fucking afraid. 

Because fuck it. This is his town, this is where he was born and raised, this is where he fucking became _him_ , and whether or not that was a good thing - there’s a whole lotta shit - but he’s not gonna let his dad take another thing from him. 

He’s going to go and buy some new shit, some new jeans, some underwear and a fucking toothbrush and he’s not going to look over his shoulder the entire time. 

Because fuck it. 

He’s here for Ian. He’s here for himself. 

Mickey pulls his hands out of his pockets and stares at the FUCK-U UP inked on his knuckles, and much like those words, Chicago is inked into his skin, even if he hates it, even if Terry is the reason for those words and for his ties to the city - he’s going to fucking, finally, make them his own. 

As he buys himself a new CTA card, his eyes catches his MTA card sitting in the back of his wallet, he pauses for a second, and then in a swift movement, he takes it out and tosses it in the trash. 

* * *

Ian insisted before he left for work that they go to The Alibi after he gets off his shift - that they need to toast Mickey being here, to the beginning of… whatever this is. 

To the beginning of everything, really.

His hands twitch the entire way over and periodically he clenches and unclenches them in his pockets, the bags of clothes and random shit he picked up hanging off his elbows. He had managed to buy a week’s worth of underwear, some t-shirts, a pair of new jeans and a toothbrush without, somehow miraculously, bumping into someone he knew. He was going to try and his phone fixed too, but ultimately ran out of time, so he resigned to being off the grid for at least another 24 hours. 

He likes the idea of being unreachable a little too much, if he’s honest. 

It was a strange sensation, walking down the streets and into stores he used to frequent, after pushing them out of his mind for so long, trying so, _so_ fucking hard to move on, but he managed. It was pretty boring, actually - Mickey had also forgotten how much he actually hates buying shit for himself, the mundane staleness of malls makes his skin crawl - and it was ultimately a lot less dramatic than he’d always figured his _firstdaybackinChicago_ was going to be. 

The Alibi however? He’s well aware of the hot mess he could be walking into. Firstly though, he’s got to tackle meeting Ian at work. 

He arrives early at Ian’s station - or at least he thinks it’s his station. He’s gonna be embarrassed as fuck if he’s at the wrong place but he followed Ian’s scribbled down directions to the T, so he should be okay. 

‘Can I help you?’ 

Some guy wearing the same uniform as Ian was earlier looks at him with raised eyebrows, he’s caught standing halfway up out of his chair as he speaks - almost defensively. Mickey forces down a scathing reply because he knows what he looks like, he knows how he comes across, but he also reluctantly wants to make a good impression around Ian’s work friends. 

Mickey clears his throat, flattens out his curled fist and attempts to put on his best _dealing with judgemental assholes_ voice, ‘Yo, I’m looking for-’ 

_‘Mickey!’_

Ian’s striding towards him and his eyes are tired but his smile is wide, which is enough for Mickey not to be _too_ concerned, and it sends something blooming open like a flower in his chest. Ian throws an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close, pressing himself right into Mickey’s side. 

‘Hey’ He whispers into his hair, and that’s enough to make Mickey’s head spin. 

‘This is _Mickey_?’ The guy looks at him, his mouth gaping. His tone isn’t condescending or judgmental, just surprised. Surprised and somewhat impressed, ‘Holy shit, dude- I’m Connor.’ 

He holds his hand out for Mickey to shake and he eyes it wearily for a second before Ian jabs him playfully under the ribs and lets out a held breath as he accepts it. 

‘Yeah this is Mick.’ Ian says with an edge of pride. 

The nickname bubbles in Mickey’s stomach, and Ian throws a look over his shoulder towards the back of the station. 

Connor turns to him with a grin, his eyes darting down to Mickey’s tattooed knuckles, but his smile doesn’t falter, ‘Dude hasn’t shut up about you all day.’ 

Mickey lets out a breath and rolls his eyes despite the secret, warm, pleased feeling spooling out in his chest. 

Ian’s arm slides down his shoulders and to his waist as he yells, ‘Hey- Sue? _Sue!_ someone’s here I want you to meet.’ 

‘ _Gallagher,_ I’ve got shit to do-’ A voice calls back. Sue, presumably. Mickey leans closer into Ian’s side, grounding himself. 

‘It’ll take one sec- come on.’ 

A brown haired woman in the same uniform as the rest of them walk over to where they’re standing, she eyes Mickey suspiciously but it’s not particularly threatening, so he doesn’t feel the need to scowl. 

She throws Ian a look, ‘What?’ 

‘Sue- meet Mickey.’ Ian says, squeezing his hand where it sits on his hips. Mickey’s slightly uncomfortable by it all, but he hangs in there. He can do this. 

‘Ah, so you’re the reason this bonehead here has been a mess all day.’ Sue says, her eyebrows raised and she gives him a look up and down. 

‘Oh come on-’ Ian says with a light, embarrassed laugh. There’s a low blush forming on his neck and Mickey suppresses the urge to press his face into it to feel the heat. 

Sue scoffs, but it’s all good natured, she looks over to Connor and then to Mickey, then back to Ian, ‘I mean- was it some other _rookie_ had to keep repeating myself to?’ 

Mickey laughs at that. 

It’s nice, Mickey thinks, watching these two throw banter between them, they’re clearly good friends - or at least get on well at work. It’s good, he guesses, to know that Ian has _friends_ and people that love him here. That he’s had that whilst he’s been away. It hurts too, deep down, knowing that he wasn’t there for so much but- 

He has to focus on the now. He has to focus on the fact he’s here, they’re both here, and this is his life now. He gets to have this life now. 

Mickey’s pulled back by Ian removing his hand from his waist to hold it in front of him in a gesture of innocence, ‘Alright, alright-’ 

Sue cracks a smile, then holds a hand out to Mickey - what is it with these people and shaking hands - then says, ‘I’m Sue, it’s good to meet you Mickey.’ 

‘Yeah.’ Mickey shakes her outstretched hand then drops it, letting his fingers curl in on themselves at his side. He doesn’t really know what to say, but he knows he’ll look like a dick if he doesn’t say anything else, ‘Sure, you too.’ 

Then things are kinda awkward, but naturally so, and Ian’s hand lands on his shoulder. 

‘We’ve gotta run- see you guys tomorrow?’

‘Good to have you back, Gallagher.’ Sue sing-songs, then she looks pointedly over at Mickey. ‘Take care of him- don’t keep him up too late.’ She winks.

‘No promises.’ Ian yells, gripping Mickey by the bicep and swinging his bag onto his shoulder with the other free hand. They stumble out of the station’s door onto the sidewalk, their bodies unnecessarily close, but neither one of them mind. 

Mickey pulls out a cigarette and knocks his hip against Ian’s as he puts it to his lips. 

‘Distracted, huh?’ He says with a coy grin. 

‘Shut the fuck up.’ 

Mickey raises his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth curved upwards as he exhales, ‘You were thinkin’ about me. And that distracted you.’ 

Ian grabs him by the hips and they go tumbling into the wall, the cigarette falls to the floor forgotten in the midst of their goofing off. 

‘Shut the fuck up.’ Ian says, with a fierce poke at his ribcage which makes a breathy laugh fall out of Mickey’s chest. 

‘Dick.’ He says, and it’s all joy as he shoves his hands into Ian’s stomach, pushing him off. His cheeks hurt because he’s smiling so, so wide and he gets to have _this_.

They pass a fresh cigarette between them as they walk over to the bar, Ian rambles on about his day - there were a couple of calls out but nothing too busy, which was good, Mickey thinks with a smirk, since apparently Ian had been off his game the entire day. 

The thought of Ian being overly distracted at work shouldn’t please him as much as it does, but he can’t help the warm fire it ignites in his guts. It’s comforting to know that he can, and does have, have that effect on him. 

They fall into a comfortable silence as they walk, passing the cigarette back and forth, basking almost, in the chance to be together. 

‘You get your phone fixed?’ Ian says after a while, smoke pouring out of his nose. Mickey takes it out of his fingers. 

‘Nah.’ He puts it to his lips and says with an inhale, ‘I’ll get round to it.’ 

Ian hums, and they turn the corner to The Alibi’s block. This is it, he guesses, this is the real test. 

He takes the cigarette out of his lips and drops it to the ground, stubbing it out with his heel. 

Mickey feels antsy about being back in this part of town, his dad could be lurking anywhere - and it’s not that he’s scared, he’s not, he just wants to be ready. Especially when he’s here with Ian.

Fuck, he needs to get his hands on a gun. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? 

He’s not going to run from his dad when the time comes ( _if_ the time comes, he has to remind himself), but he needs to protect Ian. Protect himself. 

He’s got shit in his life worth protecting. His life is worth protecting. 

Then, however, there’s the whole not getting involved in anything else that could throw him back in the slammer - he’s sure the Chicago PD would love to hear that a Milkovich is back in town and breaking laws. They made a pretty swift move of throwing him behind bars last time, he doubts it’ll be any different a second time. 

It’s all very fucking complicated. 

They finally reach The Alibi and his breath catches in his throat, but he fights the urge to turn around and walk away. He’s doing this. 

Mickey looks at the sign above the door, his heart thumping, he’s been here so many times - why is now different? 

Why _should_ now be different?

Because he’s been away for almost a decade? Because who the fuck _knows_ is sitting in there and could snake back to his dad? Because anyone who might be sitting in there that knows him from years ago, knows him as a deadbeat ex-con who was put in prison for attempted _murder_? Or as the gay Milkovich son with a Russian whore of an ex-wife, crazy boyfriend and a father who wants to kill him? 

He stares at the sign, a decade almost since he was last here, and thinks. 

He’s Mickey fuckin’ Milkovich, and he’s so much fuckin’ more than a deadbeat, ex-con who was put in prison on a bullshit attempted murder charge or the gay Milkovich with a Russian whore of an ex-wife, crazy boyfriend and a father who wants to kill him. So much more. 

He jerks forward and his foot catches the corner of an uneven piece of sidewalk and he stumbles, Ian’s hand shoots out to steady him. 

‘You good?’ Ian asks, his eyes scan Mickey’s face, concerned. 

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Mickey sighs, humiliated slightly by how distracted by his own head and thoughts he can be, but he’s okay - he can do this. He runs a hand down his face, ‘Let’s just get this over with.’ 

Ian eyes him suspiciously, but doesn’t say anything else. He goes first pushing the bar’s door open and Mickey braces himself, chest heavy but ready. 

The Alibi isn’t too busy, just a couple clusters here and there, and unsurprisingly Tommy and Kermit sit at the furthest end of the bar nursing beers surrounded by a smattering of already empty glasses. Weirdly enough - which probably isn’t actually that weird if Mickey thinks about it, considering he’s been there every single other time Mickey’s entered this bar - the absence of Frank Gallagher sticks out like a sore thumb. 

It’s not that Mickey misses the guy, he definitely doesn’t, but it is _weird_ to be here and not see him passed out or standing on a chair proclaiming to be the next messiah - or whatever the fuck bullshit he was spewing that day. It’s weird, that’s all. 

It’s another fucking reminder of the time passed. But he’s here now. He’s back. 

Since it’s still somewhat early evening, a handful of people look up and turn their way when they enter. 

‘Hey Ian, how-’ Kev starts behind the bar, his face cracking into a wide, ecstatic smile when he catches onto Mickey at Ian’s side, ‘ _Mickey!_ My man, twice in the last couple weeks? Is it fuckin’ Christmas?’ 

Ian pulls him onto stalls at the end of the bar closest to the door - easy exit, Mickey figures, plus neither of them are interested in getting into any sort of conversation with the daily drunkards. 

‘What ya doing here?’ Kev beams, his hands busy cleaning a glass. 

‘You might be seeing a bit more of him.’ Ian says, squeezing Mickey’s bicep then letting it rest there. 

Kev’s eyes catch the movement, then looks between them, the cogs working slowly in his head. His jaw drops. 

‘No fucking way- you guys are back on? Like, _on_ on?’

Mickey rolls his eyes so hard it practically edges on a headache - apparently everyone is deciding to be obnoxious about them today - but really, who is he to complain. He’s also fucking excited about being back _on_ on with Ian. 

Ian’s hand on his arm grounds him, he needs it, he needs to be pulled back down to earth. He waves his hand in a _yeah sure whatever_ kind of way, and Kev’s eyes light up. 

Ian beams, he presses himself up against Mickey’s side and leans over the bar, ‘Can we get a round?’ 

‘Of fucking shots- _yeah!_ ’ Kev says, clapping his hands together. He turns around and grabs a clear liquor from behind him and quickly starts pouring 3 shots out onto the bar top. 

‘Do we really have to-’ Mickey tries, because this seems fucking ridiculous, but he’s interrupted by a glass being pressed into his hand and Ian’s palm flat on his back. 

Ian nudges him with this elbow, ‘Come _on_.’

‘Alright, alright- okay.’ Mickey groans, picking up the shot glass. Ian grins, raising his own. 

Kev raises his glass and calls out to the rest of the bar, ‘Attention all!’ 

_Oh here we fucking go_ , Mickey thinks, as the other patrons and look towards the bar. Tommy and Kermit perk up at the end, finally noticing Mickey’s presence next to Ian. He watches as Tommy elbows Kermit and points in their direction. 

Kev spreads his arms wide and addresses them all, his voice booming, ‘Mickey Milkovich- once again, being back in Chicago's Southside ladies and gentlemen.’ 

‘Here, here!’ Ian joins, clinking his glass with his and Mickey knocks the shot back, the liquor burning as it goes down. 

Yeah, he’ll fucking drink to that.

There’s a smattering of cheers around the bar, beers held up high in the air. Mickey doesn’t recognise everyone, but there’s definitely enough familiar faces with wide, tired eyes watching intensely. 

_Well, if his dad didn’t know he was back in town yet, he definitely does now_ , Mickey thinks stifly, and the dark thought threatens to eclipse him, to ruin his entire fucking mood, but Mickey slams the shot glass to the table and refuses to let it. 

Bring it, he thinks, tapping the side of his glass to indicate to Kev for another. 

Fuck his dad, fuck him holding that power over him, it’s difficult, he knows that, but Mickey has to stop letting him have that power. 

He’s had that power all of his fucking life and he is _done_. 

Ian’s at his side, laughing, warm and close, and that is all he needs. That’s all he cares about. 

The cheering dies down and Ian turns to him, and there’s a _look_ in his eye. 

‘What?’ 

‘You’re here.’ He says, like he hasn’t said those words multiple times already today, like he needs that reassurance. 

Mickey rolls his eyes, because they’ve been through this, but he can’t deny it - the fact he is _here_ and not _there_ , that they’re here together and they’re not kids, they’re adults with time on their hands, makes him want to lie down on the sticky bar floor right there and then. 

Mickey lets his face soften, the tension he’s felt all night - the entire day, really - slowly ebbing away as he looks at Ian’s earnest and open expression.

He loves him. He loves him so much it makes him feel so light he could float away and so heavy he could sink into the earth’s crust all at the same time. It’s an overwhelming wave, but a wave he welcomes to drown him. Hell, he’s been drowning since he was a teenager. 

‘Yeah.’ He breathes, the air falling out of his lungs slowly. He gives the bar a quick once over, ‘I’m here.’

He looks over the corner where _I want everyone here to know_ , to the pool table he’d play rounds with his brothers, to the stairs where it leads to the back room where he’d run the rub and tug. 

Where they’re fucking sitting- 

_Because you’re not free._

The memory is intense, Mickey almost winces but he catches himself. He squeezes his eyes shut then opens them again to look over at Ian, and he’s pretty much the same picture as he was back then, except his face is bright, and healthy, and neither of them are aching with misery. 

Ian made him free back then, Ian makes him free now. 

‘You’re staring pretty intensely, man. Whatcha thinkin’ about?’ Ian says softly, catching him off guard. Mickey smoothes out his face and shrugs. 

‘Nothin’ just...just, stuff.’ 

Ian kicks Mickey’s foot lightly, his face unimpressed, but couples it with his hand finding Mickey’s on his thigh. He doesn’t intertwine their fingers, choosing instead to rest his hand gently on top of his, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles into his skin. 

There’s a tiny, _tiny_ , part of him that wants to reactively retract his hand, a reflex buried so deep under his skin that’s kicked back into action simply by being back here, in The Alibi, in the Southside. 

He doesn’t give in. 

Mickey can’t remember the last time he and Ian were here together, it must’ve been at some point before his diagnosis, but he _knows_ , whenever it was, he wasn’t feeling as relaxed as this, as free, as open. 

The Alibi was one of those places he came to blend in, drink with the guys, act like his bones weren’t aching from pretending to be something he wasn’t. Even after he came out dramatically, even after the blood spilled on this very floor, he never really… let himself give into that new found freedom. 

But now? 

Now there’s not a single thing in the universe, no money he could be paid, no force he couldn’t fight, that could convince him to tear his hand away from Ian’s. 

He gets to be in The Alibi, a place that holds so much fucking weight of _everything_ in it’s peeling walls and sticky floorboards, and hold the hand of the man he loves. 

Because he didn’t get to have that before. And now he does. 

Almost like he senses it - he probably does, they know each other inside and out - Ian’s hand twists and his fingers slot between Mickey’s. 

‘How does it feel to be back?’ He asks, his voice soft but audible, Mickey wants to bury himself in it. 

He scoffs, ‘Fuckin’ weird.’ 

‘I bet.’ 

‘Good weird.’ 

Ian smiles goofily, ‘Yeah, a good weird.’ 

They stay for a few more hours and Mickey ends up having a couple beers to chase the shots but Ian doesn’t go any further than his first drink, instead nursing a coke the rest of the evening. 

The bar is busier now, louder too, and Ian has to lean in close to whisper into Mickey’s ear, ‘Wanna get out of here?’ 

Mickey sets his empty glass down and looks at him, there’s intent in his eyes as he asks, ‘Hungry?’ 

‘Yeah- back home and order take out?’ Ian says with a nod, a small smile playing on his lips. He throws a couple of bills down on the bar. 

Home. Home. Home. Home. Home. Home. Home. 

‘Fuck yes.’ Mickey says, sliding off the bar stool in a quick movement and crossing already halfway to the door. He turns back to Ian, smirking, ‘You coming, Gallagher?’ 

Ian scrambles off the stool to meet him, his limbs flying out clumsily in his haste and Mickey’s heart flips at his eagerness to join him. His hands land on Mickey’s shoulders and he shuffles them both out of the bar, calling goodbye over his shoulder, and they tumble out onto the sidewalk. 

Ian knocks his hips into Mickey’s, shoving him slightly off balance, and he feels so fucking light and elated he’s surprised he doesn’t fly away. 

‘Alright, asshole.’ Mickey laughs, blissed out and high off of being together, here, and now. 

Ian slides his arm around Mickey’s shoulders and pulls him in close as they walk. 

‘I’m so fuckin’ glad you’re here.’ He says, pressing his lips to the side of Mickey’s head, speaking into his hair. The air is cold but his heart is warm, his chest is warm, his bones are warm. 

For the first time in his life, he feels _warm_ and it’s all the way down to his toes. 

‘Let’s go home, Mick.’

Yeah, Mickey thinks, looking over at him and meeting Ian’s gaze, let’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand there it is! well, not really - there will be an epilogue uploaded shortly (it's already written, don't worry!). 
> 
> importantly though:  
> \- black lives matter, they matter today, tomorrow and every single day that has passed, and every single day in the future. now more than ever it is important to be active in our support, educate ourselves and amplify black voices. please check out this [caard](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/) if you haven't already, and if you have, check it out again. change will only come if we keep up the consistent fight!  
> \- also, trans lives matter, fuck a certain author who thinks differently. here's a link to a [gofundme](https://www.gofundme.com/f/homeless-black-trans-women-fund?utm_source=customer&utm_campaign=p_cp+share-sheet&utm_medium=copy_link-tip) to support homeless black trans women in atlanta! 
> 
> thank you for reading and as always, you can find me on[ twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian) and [ tumblr](https://oforamuse.tumblr.com)
> 
> see you very, very soon. 
> 
> xoxo


	12. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go...

It takes a little bit longer than they both expected, but almost 2 years to the day of Mickey coming back to Chicago for good, they start making a plan to make it back out to New York for a visit. 

Ian has to wear Mickey down slightly before he manages to convince him and commit to it, but he eventually gives in and Mickey pays for the tickets with part of his first pay rise at work. 

(Lip hooked him up with a mechanic job through a mutual friend and as it turns out, Mickey’s good with his hands - Ian likes the grime and sweat, and it gives him something to be… proud of, he guesses.) 

Ian saves up a bunch of holiday days, and Mickey’s boss doesn’t really care when he takes time off just so long as he gives him a heads up, so suddenly, the plan for an early summer vacation is in action. 

Mickey doesn’t really want to think about it too much so he lets Ian do most of the leg work of booking things and finding a hotel. 

The night before the trip back Mickey doesn’t sleep a wink, or at least it feels like he doesn’t, given his eyes are groggy and heavy when he manages to pull himself out of bed the next morning. He’s excited, nervous as fuck and scared shitless all at the same time. It’s a weird sensation. 

His bag is packed though, he’s ready. 

Ian holds his hand almost the entire flight over, slow pulsing squeezes of _I’m here, I’ve got you, I’m here._

Flying still makes him wig the fuck out.

He makes a crack about joining the mile-high club to ease his nerves and Ian flips him off, though he pairs it with a smirk and Mickey knows he’d be up for it if he really pushed. Instead, they share a stream of salty peanuts and seltzer water throughout and Ian’s wide eyed excitement and buzzing energy keeps Mickey centred and breathing steadily.

‘Almost there.’ Ian says, eagerly looking out of the window to his right.

He spends most of the flight thinking about the last time he was hurtling through the air, the uncertainty in his chest and his shaking hands as he headed back to Chicago - but the ache in his bones of knowing what he was doing was right pushing him forward. 

It’s different. 

At least he has Ian this time, he’s always got Ian these days. 

They take a cab from the airport into Manhattan, flying instead into LaGuardia because the flights were cheaper and neither of them had been there before so they figured they should give it a try. It’s pretty much the same as JFK, so Mickey isn’t too impressed and his heart thumps a little too hard for him to notice his surroundings in great detail. An airport is an airport. Nothing fancy. 

As they go over the Robert F. Kennedy bridge and through Randalls Island into Manhattan, Mickey watches the lights of the city from the taxi window and it feels like meeting an old friend. A friend, nothing more, but a friend nevertheless. 

There’s nothing quite like the Manhattan skyline. 

His knee bounces as they ride and Ian places a firm, knowing hand on top of it to steady it. 

_I’m here, I’ve got you, I’m here._

He breathes.

They stay in a hotel on the East side, halfway between Fiona’s and Mandy’s - it’s nothing fancy, but the sheets are clean and the bed is big enough to both wrap themselves around each other or spread out like a starfish. Usually it’s the first one, though. 

Plus, they never get the chance to make as much noise as they want. 

* * *

‘Good to be back?‘ Ian asks, tapping his fingers against the mug of coffee he’s been sipping for the last 10 minutes during their first morning back in the city. 

They share pancakes and an omelette in a diner a few blocks down from their hotel. The tables are gummy and the accents are thick, but it reminds Mickey of the things he loved about the city. The hustle and bustle of the morning, the regular customers in the back corners, a shitty, stale tasting mug of black coffee. It’s familiar but distant, like an echo of something he used to know. 

Something he needed then. 

Something he doesn’t need any more. 

And that’s okay. 

Ian’s toe taps against his under the table, it’s a lighthearted prompt to answer. 

‘Good.’ Mickey says after a second, shoving in a mouthful of pancake and swallowing it down. He’s smiling, because yeah it is. 

Mickey hooks his ankle around his, and Ian shoots him a grin. 

It’s good for the both of them. 

* * *

‘Remember when we were last here?’ Ian asks, leaning back against the booth and taking a swig of the same, low alcohol piss beer he got last time. 

They’re back at the bar they met at after they bumped into each other for the first time years ago. The one where they sat and made eyes at each other, both their worlds finally back in technicolor after being in black and white for so goddamn long that neither one of them had noticed the difference until it shifted. The one where Ian clumsily asked Mickey to come to the wedding, taking a chance, and kick starting everything back into action. 

Mickey looks around and he’s a little disappointed because no one he saw regularly here back in the day has shown their face, but that’s okay, it’s been a while. 

‘Thought you were fuckin’ crazy.’ He says, taking a sip of his beer and swallowing it down, ‘Still think you fuckin’ are.’ 

‘Shut up.’ Ian snorts and flips him off, ‘You’re fuckin’ glad my _crazy_ ass invited you to the wedding.’ 

Mickey hums, smiling - he’s always fucking smiling these days, ‘Is that so?’ 

‘So fuckin’ happy.’ Ian says, and Mickey rolls his eyes but he’s grinning so, _so_ wide. 

Yeah, he’s fucking happy. 

He’s happier than he ever thought he fucking could be. 

He opens his mouth to respond, to playfully brush off the comment or agree - he doesn’t know, but Mickey’s eyes catch a familiar figure, the reason they’re here, really, coming through the door.

Mickey sits up straight and Roy’s eyes light up when he catches them.

‘How the fuck are you doin’ man!’ Roy caws once he reaches their table and he throws himself down in the booth next to Mickey, ‘Long time, long time.’ 

Mickey looks over at Ian and Ian looks back. 

‘All good, man.’ He says, his eyes not leaving his. 

‘Yeah.’ Ian says. 

When they actually have the chance to have a proper conversation, Ian and Roy get on like a house on fire, and Mickey takes a moment to swig his beer and watch them interact and trade stories. 

A friend he never thought he’d have and a love he’d thought he’d lost forever. 

It’s funny how life turns out. 

They order hot, greasy fries between them and fill each other in on the stuff that has happened since they saw each other last. The good times, the bad times, the easy shit and the hard shit. 

2 years is a long time. 

Getting used to living in Chicago again hasn’t been a complete picnic, things still suck and days still drag, but life is brighter, easier and Mickey wakes up everyday with shit to look _forward_ to. 

He gets kissed goodbye in the morning and kissed hello in the evening, he gets morning sex and night sex, he gets parties and family dinners, he gets a steady income from a job he doesn’t despise and days off to do nothing, he gets friends and streets he knows like the back of his hand. 

He gets Ian, and that ultimately, outweighs the rest of it tenfold. 

* * *

They spend an afternoon walking through Central Park from top to bottom, leaving Mandy in Harlem after meeting her for breakfast. Mickey never did that before - _walk through Central Park,_ for the sake of it - he never saw the point, really. He was too lazy to find the joy in it and mainly, he didn’t have anyone to walk with.

Now he does.

They don’t hold hands - they never do, really - but they press up against each other closely, moving together when they dodge tourists, cyclists and runners, in a way that only people who grew up in a major city know how to. 

‘I never… used to come here, you know?’ Mickey mutters after they take a seat on a bench halfway down the park or so. Ian pulls out a cigarette and passes it over to him. 

‘Whatcha mean?’ Ian says, handing him a lighter then resting his arm along the back of the bench, his fingers close to Mickey’s neck. Mickey lights it and inhales, taking a moment to pull his thoughts together, to feel cohesive and collected. 

‘Central Park.’ Mickey waves his hand dismissively, the smoke pouring out of his nose as he speaks. He looks up at the trees and the passers by, it’s early summer, so it’s busy. ‘Too many fuckin’ tourists man. Came here maybe… twice the entire time I lived here?’ 

Ian makes a sound at the back of his throat, ‘Dude, _i’ve_ come here more times than you.’

‘Yeah well, didn’t have anyone to come here with. Did I?’ Mickey shrugs, it’s not supposed to be grump, but perhaps it comes off that way because Ian sighs and gives him a pointed look. It’s a _well you do now_ look. 

Yeah, Mickey thinks as he leans in closely, I do now.

Their noses bump as they share warm breath and Mickey holds the cigarette away from them as their lips meet. 

* * *

They go to museums, share a plate at Katz’s, and ride the Staten Island ferry back and forth for an hour. They do all the shit together that Mickey never let himself do before, the shit he read about, the shit he saw on tv - the stuff people do and take cheesy photos of and post them on Facebook. 

Mickey even lets some German guy take a photo of them both on the Highline, a cheesy as fuck couple photo that he later sets as his phone background, because fuck it, they get to be a cheesy as fuck couple now. 

Fiona insists they go down to Coney Island for the day, and they pack an entire picnic of chips, dips and sandwiches but end up getting hot dogs from the boardwalk anyway.

It’s busy and there’s hardly any space to move, but they manage to find a free square on the sand to dump their stuff for a few hours in the warm sun. 

‘This is fuckin’ nice.’ Fiona says, leaning back against the sand, turning her face up towards the sun. 

Mickey watches Ian paddle at the shoreline, the light making his hair unbelievably orange, and every now and then he jumps over waves like an overgrown kid. It’s cute as fuck and Mickey can’t help the way the corners of his mouth curve upwards. His heart is full, full, full. 

‘Yeah.’ Mickey says, and he feels fucking _joyful_. ‘It is fuckin’ nice.’ 

‘Mick!’ Ian calls when he catches him leering and he waves his arms wide, cupping his hands around his mouth as he calls, ‘Get your ass over here!’ 

He pushes himself up with his hands and goes to meet Ian’s open arms.

The water is freezing but he’s oh so warm. 

* * *

They go over to Mandy’s on their last evening, she’s still in the same apartment Mickey used to know and they hang out with the ‘cool’ lesbian couple Mandy’s been renting Mickey’s old room out to. 

Mickey feels incredibly… removed, by everything, being back there. Nothing about the walls, floors, furniture, sparks any sort of familiar sentimentalities. There’s no what ifs or what could’ve beens _._ It was just a _place,_ a place where he lived for a while, never a home. 

And he’s okay with that. 

He has a home now. 

It’s nice though, to be back. He and Mandy don’t talk much, but it’s nice to see Ian smile and ease into being around his childhood best friend again. He laughs loudly, chest open and light, and Mickey wants to hear that sound for the rest of his life. 

He gets to now, he guesses. 

Ian leans into his side on the couch as they share a box of lo mein and take sips of each other’s beers, passing a joint slowly between their deft fingers. 

It’s a fun evening - Mickey doesn’t know the last time he and Mandy had _fun_ together, and Mandy was right, her new roommates are definitely much cooler than he ever was. 

They have better weed, too. 

Mandy hugs them both goodbye, her arms tight around Ian and slightly awkward around Mickey, but it’s nothing they’re not used to. 

‘Maybe I’ll come see you soon.’ Mandy says and Ian’s eyes light up. Mickey hopes, for Ian’s sake at least, that there’s some truth to her words. He doesn’t bank on it, but he hopes. 

Mickey hasn’t heard from their dad nor anyone else from the rest of his family since being back. He spent the first few months being home waiting for the other shoe to drop, the knock on the door, a bullet to the back of the head - but it never comes, and eventually his muscles relax.

He stops waiting and starts living. 

Mickey hasn’t even seen any of his old gun club friends, or the other Ukrainian drunkards Terry used to hang around with regularly, down The Alibi, on the El, or on the street - the silence could be disconcerting to some and it probably should be, but Mickey doesn’t care. 

When the day comes, he’s ready. Terry could throw anything at him but he’s ready. 

He’s not running, he’ll never run again.

He’s got too much to lose. 

Too much to protect. 

When they leave, back down the same stairs Mickey used to use everyday, there’s no discomfort, there’s no ache in his chest - only eagerness to get back to their hotel room and make use of it in their blissed out, somewhat high state. 

The night is warm and the moon is bright. The sounds of late night New York can be heard in the streets, the honking of taxis, loud music and raised voices. It’s the soundtrack of a life Mickey once had. 

Ian pulls him to a stop on their walk to the subway with a sudden jolt and Mickey stumbles into his side, Ian’s eyes suddenly look serious. 

‘You good- that weed fuck you up?’ He says with a laugh, shoving lightheartedly at Ian’s shoulder. The effects of their shared joint is wearing off and he can feel it seeping slowly out of his system, it doesn’t matter though, because he always feels somewhat high whenever he’s around Ian. 

It’s corny as hell, but it’s true. 

‘Look at where we are, Mick.’ Ian says, extending his arms out wide and gesturing around them. 

‘What?’ 

‘This is where we, ya know…’ 

He throws a look around quickly and it dawns on Mickey then, that they’re standing in the exact spot where they ran into each other again, the same piece of sidewalk, right in front of the same Duane Reade.

His shoulders drop with a breathy, _‘Fuck_.’ 

So much has happened since then, _so_ much, and thinking about it makes his head spin, but in a good way - in the _best_ way. 

It feels like a thousand lifetimes have passed by since then and yet only a minute or so all at the same time. 

Ian moves forward and kisses him, slow and steady, in the exact place they crossed paths a few years before. It was a near miss for both of them, but as Mickey presses himself closer and Ian meets him with the same intensity, he knows they would’ve found each other again eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that is officially it! 
> 
> thank you to every single one of you for reading, comment and coming on this journey with me! what started as a passion project turned into almost 100k of something i never thought i'd be able to achieve so thank you for being even a small part of it. 
> 
> i know i say it every chapter but a huge, huge mega thank to my wonderful friends [michelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statichearts/pseuds/statichearts), [vic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredavatar/pseuds/tiredavatar), [fiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningHaski/pseuds/LightningHaski) and [taylor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boneached), i truly don't know what i would've done without your support! i love you all lots. 
> 
> if you haven't already please check out this [link](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-0KC83vYfVQ-2freQveH43PWxuab2uWDEGolzrNoIks/edit), black lives matter and we need to show our support now more than ever! 
> 
> come say hi on [ twitter](https://twitter.com/buzzcutian) and [ tumblr](https://oforamuse.tumblr.com), i'm sure i'll be starting something new soon... 
> 
> lots of love and once again, thank you for everything. 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> i'll see you soon
> 
> xo.


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